iiiiiiBiiiiiiiiii 


art&ur  grtantonoi  per 


THE  WOMEN    WE    MARRY. 

THE  JESTER   OF    ST.   TIMOTHY'S.  Illustrated. 

THE    CRASHAW    BROTHERS.     Illustrated. 

THE   NEW   BOY.     Illustrated. 

HARDING    OF    ST.  TIMOTHY'S.     Illustrated. 

THE   ANCIENT  GRUDGE. 

THE   YOUNG    IN    HEART. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NBW  YORK 


THE    WOMEN   WE  MARRY 


THE 

WOMEN  WE  MARRY 


BY 


ARTHUR  STANTVOOD  PIER 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

ibe  prc0s  CambriDge 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,   1914,   BY  ARTHUR   STANWOOD  PIER 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  March  11)14 


To 
MY  WIFE 


2137759 


CONTENTS 

I.  BEFORE  BREAKFAST 3 

II.  THE  AGGRIEVED  BACHELORS      .      .      .11 

III.  A  VERY  WELL-BEHAVED  YOUNG  MAN  .    24 

IV.  A  RESCUE  AT  SEA 31 

V.  THE  RESCUER 37 

VI.  THE  RESCUED 45 

VII.  PROGRESS  OF  A  HONEYMOON     ...  56 

VIII.  VENICE 64 

IX.  THE  SOUND  OF  TRUMPETS  FROM  AFAR     .  71 

X.  THE  DESERTED  BRIDE 82 

XI.  THE  BEGINNING  OF  AN  EXCURSION       .  100 

XII.  THE  END  OF  AN  EXCURSION     .      .      .  108 

XIII.  THE  AQUAMARINE  PENDANT      .      .      .  122 

XIV.  MESSENGERS  OF  AID 131 

XV.  DEATH  AND  BATTLEFIELDS  ....  139 

XVI.   "SuN,  MOON,  AND  STARS  FORGOT"       .  144 
XVII.  GREETINGS  FROM  DR.  ARMAZET       .      .  154 
XVIII.  A    LITTLE    HOUSE    IN    MARLBOROUGH 

STREET 163 

XIX.  THE  GREATEST  OF  ALL  DAYS  .      .      .  170 

XX.  ROSAMOND  DWELLS  UPON  HER  DESTINY  .  183 

XXI.  THE  DULLNESS  OF  LIFE      ....  194 

XXII.  THE  PROTEGE 203 

I    vii    ] 


CONTENTS 

XXIII.  SPRING  OF  THE  YEAR     .      .      .      .212 

XXIV.  A  HUSBAND'S  INDIAN  SUMMER   .      .  218 
XXV.   MOTHER    AND    CHILD   AND    A    LOST 

ILLUSION 226 

XXVI.  A  YOUNG  MAN  REVOLVING  ABOUT  A 

YOUNG  MAN'S  CENTER     .      .      .  234 

XXVII.  THE  IMAGE  OF  HIS  FATHER        .      .241 

XXVIII.   HETTY  FREES  HER  MIND      .      .      .  250 

XXIX.   ROSAMOND 255 

XXX.  DOROTHY  WISHES  HER  MOTHER  TO  BE 

HAPPY 260 

XXXI.   PHASES  OF  CONTENTMENT    .      .      .  270 
XXXII.  A  NECESSARY  DEPARTURE  AND  AN 

UNNECESSARY  FAREWELL  .      .      .  279 

XXXIII.  TWIN  PRETEXTS,  WITH  MENTION  OF 

AN  IMPORTANT  INCIDENT  .      .      .  290 

XXXIV.  GEORGE  PREPARES  FOR  LESSONS  IN  A 

NEW  SCHOOL 298 

XXXV.   GEORGE  FINDS   THAT  IT   is  EASIER 

TO  LEARN  LESSONS  THAN  TO  TEACH 
THEM 306 

XXXVI.  SEPARATE  ROADS 315 

XXXVII.  THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  PLAY    .      .      .327 

XXXVIII.  BETWEEN  HUSBAND  AND  WIFE  .      .  337 

XXXIX.  BETWEEN  MOTHER  AND  CHILD  .      .  346 

XL.  O  GLORIOUS,  DECISIVE  NOON!   .      .  355 

XLI.  THE  WHEEL  HAS  COME  FULL  CIRCLE  366 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MAKEY 

CHAPTER  I 

BEFORE  BREAKFAST 

IN  the  summer  of  1899  George  Brandon  set  out  for 
home  after  six  months  of  wandering  and  collecting 
in  the  interior  of  Brazil.  He  felt  an  impatience  to  arrive 
greater  than  any  zest  with  which  he  had  ever  embarked 
upon  an  expedition.  It  hurried  him  through  the  jungle 
and  over  the  mountains;  it  urged  him  to  pace  the  deck 
restlessly  after  he  took  the  steamer  at  Colon;  it  warded 
sleep  from  his  eyes  during  the  night  trip  from  New  York 
to  Boston. 

On  a  warm  morning  in  July  he  drove  through  the 
streets  of  the  Back  Bay.  The  barred  doors  and  windows, 
the  blank  pavements  offered  no  welcome  to  the  returned 
traveler.  But  he  looked  on  them  with  a  kindly  eye;  these 
were  the  streets  that  Rosamond  had  been  accustomed  to 
tread;  Manchester,  where  she  now  must  be,  was  only  an 
hour  away;  in  a  few  minutes,  perhaps,  he  should  be  talk- 
ing with  her  by  telephone.  He  looked  at  his  watch  — 
half -past  seven;  he  had  forgotten  for  the  moment  at 
what  an  early  hour  the  midnight  train  was  accustomed 
to  deposit  one  in  Boston.  He  should  have  to  wait  until 
nine  before  telephoning;  his  impatience  culminated  at 
the  thought,  and  he  drummed  hard  on  one  of  his  pre- 
cious small  wooden  boxes. 

[    3    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

The  recollection  of  similar  returns,  made  in  hope  and 
crowned  with  failure,  did  not  abate  the  present  buoy- 
ancy of  his  heart.  His  former  excursions  had  never 
possessed  the  ultimate  and  decisive  quality  of  this. 

Never  had  he  undertaken  one  of  his  journeys  without 
feeling  that  Rosamond  had  driven  him  to  it.  Before 
starting  out  he  had  always  tried  to  make  her  realize  her 
responsibility.  In  his  state  of  mind,  to  live  in  the  same 
city  with  her  was  unsettling  to  his  faculties;  and  after  a 
protracted  period  during  which  attack  and  repulse, 
attack  and  repulse  succeeded  each  other  with  unfailing 
regularity,  he  had  felt  obliged  to  deliver  an  ultimatum. 
Unless  she  yielded  to  his  appeals,  he  should  have  to 
withdraw  himself  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth  and 
catch  butterflies.  The  pursuit  of  lepidoptera,  from  being 
a  hobby,  had  attained  the  dignity  of  a  scientific  interest, 
and  could  be  made  to  furnish  the  solace  and  excitement 
of  adventure.  "I  can't  go  on  spending  my  life  in  futile 
entreaties,"  he  had  said  severely. 

With  the  inexhaustible  iteration  of  the  lover,  George 
had  four  times  thus  shamelessly  achieved  pathos  in  her 
eyes.  She  was  a  believing  soul,  and  her  heart  was  wrung 
at  the  evidence  of  the  desperation  to  which  she  was 
driving  a  man.  She  had  shown  her  emotion,  and  there- 
fore George  had  dared  to  leave  her,  in  spite  of  the  several 
other  contending  suitors  for  her  hand.  But  with  all  her 
display  of  emotion,  she  had  remained  stubborn,  and  so 
during  his  preceding  absences  he  had  kept  himself  before 
her  by  frequent  letters. 

As  the  results  had  been  negligible,  he  had  decided  that 
this  was  a  blunder  in  tactics,  that  he  had  caused  her  to 

[  4  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

feel  too  sure  of  him.  So  on  taking  his  leave  of  her  for 
this  last  and  longest  expedition,  although  he  had  ob- 
served with  gratification  that  her  part  in  the  fell  business 
was  occasioning  her  even  more  distress  than  usual,  he 
had  resolved  to  be  extraordinarily  inexorable.  He  sus- 
pected that  in  his  absence  she  subsisted  for  her  happi- 
ness largely  upon  his  letters,  and  that  the  beneficial 
influence  of  separation  was  nullified  by  the  warmth  of 
his  correspondence.  During  this  last  expedition  he  had 
written  her  not  one  letter. 

He  had  a  premonition  that  this  policy  would  prove 
successful.  She  had  no  doubt  come  to  feel  that  she  had 
lost  him;  in  the  unexpected  rapture  of  having  him  return 
she  would  probably  grasp  the  fact  that  he  was  indispen- 
sable to  her  happiness. 

She  did  not  know  that  he  was  in  this  part  of  the  world; 
how  startled,  possibly  even  ecstatic,  she  would  be  at 
hearing  his  voice ! 

In  his  rooms  he  found  an  accumulation  of  mail.  He 
looked  through  it  to  see  if  there  was  anything  of  an 
interesting  appearance,  and  found  a  letter  from  Rosa- 
mond. Standing  by  the  window,  he  opened  it. 

"Dear  George,"  he  read.  "I  don't  know  that  this  let- 
ter will  ever  reach  you,  but  I  must  send  you  the  news  if  I 
can.  I  am  engaged  to  be  married  to  Graham  Rappallo. 
Do  be  always  my  good  friend.  Somehow  I  feel  that  I 
have  dropped  out  of  your  life  and  that  in  my  happiness 
I  shall  not  make  you  unhappy. 

"  Ever  your  sincere  friend, 

"ROSAMOND  RAMSAY." 
I    5    ] 


THE  WOMEN   WE   MARRY 

George  folded  the  letter  slowly  and  replaced  it  in  the 
envelope.  He  had  come  into  the  room  a  few  minutes 
before,  alert,  eager,  brimming  with  confidence  and 
vitality;  now  with  the  slow  uncertainty  of  one  dazed  and 
stunned,  he  sank  into  a  chair.  His  mind  refused  to  grap- 
ple with  this  monstrous  announcement;  slowly  he  drew 
the  note  again  from  the  envelope,  slowly  he  again  read 
it,  and  then  he  let  it  slip  from  his  fingers  to  the  floor.  He 
felt  dazed,  inert,  stricken.  Thought  came  to  him  by 
degrees  and  shot  pangs  into  every  corner  of  his  con- 
sciousness. The  thousand  little  dreams  that  he  had 
dreamed  could  never  be.  The  little  plans  that  he  had 
laid  for  freshly  recommending  himself  to  Rosamond 
were  overturned.  Even  this  day  to  which  he  had  looked 
forward  with  joyous  anticipation  had  been  transformed 
into  a  day  of  misery  and  emptiness  —  this  day !  —  good 
God,  his  whole  life!  He  was  suddenly  left  without  an 
object  to  strive  for,  without  the  luring  gleam  of  a  happi- 
ness to  win.  He  saw  himself  in  the  mirror  across  the 
room,  and  the  face  that  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
regard  with  friendly  interest  and  to  cherish  with  modest 
pride  seemed  now  the  face  of  one  beaten  and  ferocious, 
ineffectual  and  lawless.  The  carefully  brushed  thick 
black  hair  and  the  healthy  dark  complexion  invited  his 
scorn.  Fool  to  think  that  he  had  ever  taken  satisfaction 
in  such  vapid  vanities!  And  fool,  thrice  fool,  to  think 
that  Rosamond  could  ever  have  loved  those  heavy  lips 
and  that  dogged,  yes,  that  criminal-looking  jaw!  He 
recalled  with  an  embittering  irony  the  smug  fancies  with 
which  he  had  beguiled  his  homeward  way;  how  he  had 
determined  if  she  would  be  his  wife  to  take  up  content- 

I    6     ] 


THE   WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

edly  the  surgical  work  which  in  restlessness  he  had  so 
often  abandoned  —  take  it  up  contentedly  and  plod 
along  at  it  even  though  already  outstripped  by  his  con- 
temporaries. The  ironical  memory  of  having  debated 
with  himself  the  choice  of  ushers  for  his  wedding  added 
piquancy  to  his  sufferings,  as  did  the  memory  of  fre- 
quent past  imaginings  of  himself  receiving  the  bride  at 
the  altar,  and  of  the  look  in  her  dear  eyes. 

The  thought  of  that  look,  the  thought  that  it  was  to  be 
for  another  man,  put  him  into  a  sudden  fury.  He 
brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table,  crying  aloud,  "I'll 
fight  for  her,  I'll  fight  for  her!"  She  was  only  engaged; 
she  was  not  yet  married.  He  took  up  her  letter  again  to 
look  at  the  date;  it  had  been  written  two  months  ago. 
Perhaps  she  was  already  finding  that  she  had  made  a 
mistake;  perhaps  it  needed  only  his  reappearance  to  con- 
vince her.  Hope  flashed  out  of  his  darkness.  He  would 
plead  with  her  this  very  day.  Graham  Rappallo  —  hope 
flickered  more  dimly.  If  it  had  been  one  of  those  whom 
he  had  known  to  be  courting  her,  Tom  Simcox  or  Clar- 
ence Milne  or  Stephen  Foster,  he  would  have  felt  almost 
sanguine  of  expelling  the  usurper;  he  had  never  been 
afraid  of  any  of  them.  But  Graham  Rappallo  must  have 
swept  down  on  her  suddenly  and  as  suddenly  seized 
upon  her  imagination.  Brilliant  and  bold,  handsome,  an 
athlete,  with  now  a  touch  of  military  glory  and  glamour 
to  adorn  him,  Graham  Rappallo  might  easily  have 
enthralled  an  impressionable  girl. 

George  stripped  off  his  clothes  while  he  reflected  on 
these  unpromising  considerations;  he  splashed  for  some 
minutes  in  his  bath,  rubbed  himself  down  with  great 

[  7  1 


THE   WOMEN   WE  MARRY 

vigor,  and  felt  better.  As  he  glanced  over  his  well-made 
body,  he  told  himself  aggressively  that  he  was  as  good  a 
man  as  Rappallo;  he  wished  that  Rosamond  would  sub- 
mit him  and  Rappallo  to  some  sort  of  a  gladiatorial  test! 
It  galled  him  to  think  that  probably  Rappallo  was  pre- 
ferred because  he  had  seen  service  in  a  paltry  little  war; 
he  himself  had  dared  more  perils  chasing  butterflies  than 
any  amateur  soldier  in  Cuba! 

By  the  time  he  was  dressed  he  had  calmed  himself  suf- 
ficiently to  realize  that  it  was  still  too  early  for  telephon- 
ing, and  to  examine  the  rest  of  his  accumulated  letters. 
He  ripped  through  them,  finding  nothing  to  arrest  his 
attention  until  he  opened  what  was  obviously  a  wedding 
invitation.  He  glanced  at  it  and  let  it  fall  to  the  floor. 
Then  he  sat  down  upon  the  sofa  and  leaned  his  head 
back  against  the  wall  and  turned  his  face  up  towards  the 
ceiling. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rudolph  Ramsay  were  inviting  him 
to  attend  the  wedding  of  their  daughter  Rosamond  to 
Mr.  Graham  Rappallo. 

George  at  last  rose,  and  without  picking  up  either  note 
or  invitation  crossed  the  room  and  rang  a  bell.  Pres- 
ently the  valet  who  looked  after  the  comfort  of  the 
young  men  in  the  Mortimer  Apartments  appeared; 
George  ordered  breakfast.  While  he  waited  for  it  he 
smoked  three  cigarettes,  pacing  back  and  forth  and 
eyeing  gloomily  the  sheet  of  paper  that  he  had  dropped. 
At  last  he  caught  it  up  and  glanced  at  the  date,  which 
he  had  not  noticed.  The  wedding  was  to  take  place 
that  very  afternoon,  at  Manchester. 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  George  aloud  to  himself, 
[  8  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"how  many  shocks  can  a  man  endure  on  an  empty 
stomach!  Where  the  devil  is  my  breakfast!" 

He  lighted  a  fourth  cigarette;  he  was  singeing  his 
mustache  on  the  stub  when  the  breakfast  appeared. 
"Walter,"  he  said  to  the  valet,  "please  have  a  blue  suit 
pressed  for  me  this  morning.  I  shall  want  it  at  twelve 
o'clock." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  valet,  who  was  gray-haired  and 
impeccably  English.  "Pleasant  morning  we're  having, 
sir.  Pleasant  to  see  you  home  again,  sir." 

"Thanks,"  said  George.  "Boston  's  the  deuce  of  a 
place  in  July." 

"A  bit  dead,  but  I  suppose  no  warmer  than  Brazil, 
sir?" 

"Yes,  it  was  hot  there,"  George  admitted.  "But  I 
prefer  the  kind  of  butterflies  they  have  in  Brazil."  He 
spoke  with  violence. 

"Did  you  bring  home  some  fine  specimens,  sir?" 

"Pretty  good.  When  I  get  my  cases  unpacked,  you 
may  see  them." 

"Thank  you,  sir;  it's  always  a  pleasure." 

The  valet  withdrew.  When  in  the  course  of  an  hour  he 
returned  to  remove  the  breakfast  things,  George  was 
kneeling  on  the  floor;  with  hammer  and  chisel  he  was 
prying  the  cover  off  a  small  wooden  box.  Other  boxes, 
already  open,  were  on  the  floor  beside  him;  the  contents 
were  still  unrevealed,  protected  by  paraffine  paper. 

George  glanced  up  and  caught  the  look  of  expectant 
interest  in  the  man's  eyes.  "Here,"  he  said,  "I'm  going 
to  open  this  one  now." 

He  placed  the  box  on  the  table  and  carefully  lifted  the 
[  9  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

sheet  of  paraffine  paper.  The  valet  bent  over  with  eyes 
shining  and  gave  a  low,  respectful  exclamation  of  de- 
light. A  great  purple  and  gold  butterfly  with  a  spread 
of  wings  of  nearly  ten  niches  was  the  sole  occupant  of 
the  box  —  the  largest,  most  magnificent  butterfly  that 
Walter  had  ever  seen. 

"We'll  look  at  it  in  the  light,"  said  George,  and  he 
carried  the  box  to  the  window.  The  valet  looked  over 
his  shoulder  and  gazed  with  an  admiration  too  deep  for 
speech.  In  the  sunlight,  the  still  and  shining  thing 
seemed  too  beautiful  to  be  dead.  Its  rich  purple  was  iri- 
descent now;  veins  of  gold  ran  irregularly  out  from 
thorax  to  wing-tip;  and  ruby  and  amethystine  lights 
showed,  yet  seemed  half-hidden  in  the  iridescence.  At 
the  base  of  the  wings  two  heart-shaped  flecks  of  scarlet 
gave  a  bleeding,  human,  touching  significance  to  the 
brilliancy  of  the  thing. 

"It's  beautiful;  what  is  it  called,  sir?"  asked  the 
valet. 

"It's  a  new  species  —  unknown  to  me,  at  least," 
replied  George.  "I  named  it  Imperatrix  R." 

"It's  beautiful,"  repeated  the  valet. 

George  looked  at  the  man's  absorbed  face  and  fas- 
cinated eyes. 

"And  she  never  looked  at  any  of  my  specimens  with 
such  eyes!"  he  thought  bitterly. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  AGGRIEVED  BACHELORS 

GEORGE  BRANDON'S  rooms  were  on  the  top  floor 
of  an  apartment  house  facing  Boston  Common. 
From  his  front  windows  he  could  look  over  the  elms  of 
the  Common  to  the  shops  and  office  buildings  of  Boyl- 
ston  Street,  and  over  the  maples  and  alien  trees  of  the 
Public  Garden  to  the  suave  line  of  Arlington  Street  — 
the  frontier  of  the  Back  Bay.  Arlington  Street  Church 
and  the  tower  of  Trinity  and  the  spire  of  the  New  Old 
South  were  all  within  his  vision,  rising  from  the  distant 
mass  of  huddled  roofs.  The  corner  on  which  the  apart- 
ment house  stood  was  one  where  two  distinct  lines  of 
the  city's  life  intersected  each  other,  the  noisy  trolley 
cars  and  rattling  drays  of  Charles  Street,  and  the  sleek 
soft-rolling  carriages  of  Beacon. 

From  his  side  windows  George  viewed  the  roofs  march- 
ing up  Beacon  Hill  to  culminate  in  the  State  House 
dome  at  the  apex  —  roofs,  chimneys,  and  chimney-pots, 
beginning  below  him  and  rising  in  the  distance.  Pigeons 
were  always  strutting  and  love-making  on  these  roofs; 
often  they  flew  up  to  rest  on  George's  window  sills. 
He  had  encouraged  them  in  the  past  by  putting  crumbs 
out  for  them;  he  liked  to  see  them  at  close  range  and 
study  their  colors.  The  bright  colors  of  birds  and  butter- 
flies had  a  never-ending  fascination  for  him. 
t  When  George  had  first  taken  these  rooms,  he  had  de- 
[  11  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

signed  to  devote  himself  to  the  practice  of  medicine,  and 
he  had  furnished  them  with  a  view  to  the  needs  of  a 
young  physician.  His  living-room  —  the  room  fronting 
on  the  Common —  was  also  to  be  a  waiting-room  for 
patients.  The  room  behind  it  was  to  be  his  office.  But 
as  time  went  by  and  George  still  waited  for  patients 
instead  of  keeping  patients  waiting  for  him,  and  as  his 
expeditions  and  the  collections  resulting  therefrom  made 
more  demands  upon  his  time  and  space,  the  character 
of  the  apartment  was  altered. 

The  austere,  unfriendly  furnishings  of  the  doctor's 
waiting-room  had  given  place  to  objects  of  more  indi- 
viduality and  warmth  —  two  ancient  high-backed  Eng- 
lish chairs  with  gilded  carvings,  a  Chinese  inlaid  table, 
supporting  an  old  bronze  Chinese  lamp,  and  a  side 
table  on  which  were  decanters,  containing  liquids  of 
hospitable  hue. 

When  Hetty  Mallory,  George's  sister,  first  surveyed 
the  transformed  apartment,  she  exclaimed  crudely, 
"George  dear!  this  does  n't  look  like  business." 

George  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It  does  well  enough 
for  a  bon  vivant." 

"The  complete  bachelor  according  to  Ouida,"  ob- 
served Hetty  disparagingly.  "  I  suppose  you  have  dumb 
bells  under  your  bed,  and  chest  weights  in  your  bath- 
room, and  a  punching-bag  to  exercise  on  when  you're 
in  your  pajamas ! " 

"Not  at  all;  here  you  see  the  man  of  science."  George 
took  his  sister  into  the  room  which  had  once  been  in- 
tended to  serve  him  as  an  office.  But  the  glass  operat- 
ing-table had  been  sold,  and  the  book-case  filled  with 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

medical  lore  had  been  removed;  even  George's  diploma 
from  the  Medical  School  and  the  certificate  from  the 
State  Board  of  Medical  Examiners,  which  had  hung 
side  by  side  on  the  wall,  were  no  longer  visible.  In  fact 
there  was  no  wall  space  left  on  which  to  hang  anything, 
for  a  series  of  tall  mahogany  cases  containing  innumer- 
able little  drawers  had  been  installed  and  reached  almost 
to  the  ceiling. 

"Butterflies!"  Hetty  had  exclaimed,  taking  in  at  a 
glance  the  significance  of  these  furnishings.  "What  an 
inconsequent  occupation!" 

George  had  felt  hurt.  But  then,  as  Hetty  was  accus- 
tomed to  remark,  the  truth  almost  always  hurts.  She 
had  often  told  George  that  he  needed  first  to  be  jacked 
up  and  then  to  have  a  fire  built  under  him.  If  she  could 
achieve  the  first  operation,  she  was  pretty  sure  that 
Rosamond  Ramsay  would  perform  the  second. 

The  idea  of  her  father's  son  frittering  away  his  life 
was  abhorrent  to  Hetty.  Dr.  George  Brandon  had  been 
one  of  the  useful  men  of  his  generation,  and  Hetty  had 
inherited  a  belief  in  energy,  activity,  industry  —  and 
in  devoting  them  to  serve  useful  purposes.  Her  father 
had  been  one  of  the  heroes  of  his  profession.  It  was  an 
infection  derived  from  some  dangerous  laboratory  ex- 
periments that  had  carried  him  off.  Hetty  passionately 
adored  her  father's  life  and  the  manner  of  his  death. 
She  could  not  understand  how,  in  the  memory  of  it, 
George,  who  had  the  surgeon's  native  skill  and  tastes, 
could  so  lack  incentive  and  purpose.  In  a  way,  her  at- 
titude, which  was  similar  to  that  of  many  older  men  of 
the  profession,  influenced  George  to  move  in  precisely 
[  13  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

the  opposite  direction  from  that  which  she  desired.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  constantly  falling  short  of 
what  people  expected  of  him  and  so  was  being  viewed 
with  disapproval;  very  well;  since  he  could  not  succeed 
in  pleasing  others,  he  might  at  least  set  about  pleasing 
himself.  The  belittling  attitude  of  his  sister  towards  his 
butterflies  only  made  him  defiantly  assertive  of  their 
importance.  The  significance  of  lepidoptera  in  his  life 
had  been  artificially  fostered.  From  having  been  an 
amiable  diversion  of  a  young  man  with  scientific  tastes, 
the  collection  and  preservation  of  fragile  winged  things 
had  gradually  taken  on  an  interest  which,  temporarily 
at  least,  made  it  a  worthy  occupation.  To  be  sure,  there 
had  been  times  when  he  contrasted  it  with  the  work  his 
father  had  done,  and  feeling  its  comparative  unworthi- 
ness,  had  been  discontented.  But  on  the  other  hand  he 
could  not  pursue  one  form  of  life  unremittingly  over  all 
the  globe  without  acquiring  knowledge  of  other  forms 
also.  The  great  work  of  naturalists  had  been  begun  al- 
ways from  a  relatively  insignificant,  even  trivial,  start- 
ing-point. Darwin  was  not  above  studying  the  jellyfish. 
And  if  to  this  line  of  argument  with  which  George  was 
accustomed  to  reassure  himself,  a  distinction  between 
studying  and  collecting  was  suggested,  George  would 
make  the  mental  reply,  "Not  in  my  case." 

After  brooding  for  some  time  over  the  shattering  news 
which  had  been  contained  in  Rosamond's  letter,  he  set 
about  unpacking  his  boxes  and  mounting  his  new  speci- 
mens. It  was  delicate  work;  he  took  the  same  interest 
in  it  that  he  might  have  taken  in  deftly  performing  a 
neat  surgical  operation;  he  was  as  careful  in  the  use  of 
[  14  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

the  tools.  In  a  task  requiring  such  minute  observation 
and  delicacy  of  touch,  he  temporarily  forgot  his  sorrow. 

It  recurred  to  him  when  he  had  mounted  and  labeled 
the  last  butterfly  and  slid  the  last  drawer  into  place. 

"There,"  he  said,  aloud,  "that  finishes  a  half-year 
of  work.  And  now  what  am  I  to  do  with  myself?" 

Graham  Rappallo  had  deprived  him  of  his  expected 
occupation.  George  viewed  Graham  somewhat  as  a 
conscientious  striker  with  an  honest  grievance  looks 
upon  an  imported  strike-breaker  who  has  taken  his 
place. 

"Well,"  George  said,  after  a  pause,  answering  his 
own  question,  "I  suppose  for  one  thing  I  might  be  get- 
ting ready  for  the  wedding." 

He  passed  into  the  bedroom  where  the  valet  Walter 
had  laid  out  his  clothes.  After  he  had  dressed,  he  found 
that  he  had  fifteen  minutes  before  he  needed  to  start 
for  the  train.  He  began  to  debate  with  himself  whether, 
on  the  whole,  he  should  go  to  the  wedding. 

"It  will  make  me  feel  so  damned  badly,"  he  said, 
aloud.  "But  then,"  he  added,  "I  feel  so  damned  badly 
already !  I  might  as  well  see  it  through.  And  there  will 
undoubtedly  be  champagne." 

Thus,  putting  the  best  face  possible  on  the  matter, 
he  told  Walter  to  call  a  cab,  and  a  few  minutes  later  he 
was  on  his  way  to  the  North  Station. 

The  wedding  guests  who  waited  hi  front  of  the  closed 
gate  of  Track  III,  where  the  special  car  was  being  at- 
tached to  the  Manchester  train,  suddenly  underwent  a 
dramatic  and  pleasurable  thrill,  similar,  no  doubt,  to 
that  experienced  by  festive  banqueters  to  whom  an 
I  15  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

unexpected  ghost  appears.  "It's  George  Brandon,"  was 
the  excited  communication  that  ran  quickly  from  one 
to  another,  accompanied  by  a  sudden  turning  of  heads 
and  craning  of  necks,  —  which  gave  a  fortunate  few  a 
glimpse  of  the  young  man  in  the  arms  of  his  sister.  She, 
astonished  girl,  retained  sufficient  self-possession  to  re- 
lease him  as  hastily  as  she  had  embraced  him;  public 
displays  of  a  tender  feeling  were  not  at  all  to  her  mind. 

"George  dear,  I  never  dreamed  of  laying  eyes  on  you 
here,"  she  said.  "Why  did  n't  you  let  us  know?" 

"I  just  got  in  this  morning,"  he  explained.  He  shook 
hands  with  his  brother-in-law,  and  said,  "Fine  day  for 
the  wedding." 

Hetty  looked  at  him  compassionately.  "Did  you 
hurry  home  because  of  it?" 

"I  knew  nothing  about  it  till  I  found  the  invitation 
on  my  arrival.  How  long  has  Rappallo  been  after  her?  " 

"Sit  with  us  in  the  train  and  I'll  tell  you  about  it," 
said  Hetty. 

The  gate  was  opened,  and  the  wedding  guests  and  other 
passengers  streamed  through.  Philip  Mallory,  who  had 
greeted  his  brother-in-law  with  the  absence  of  surprise 
characteristic  of  a  well-poised  Bostonian  in  surprising 
encounters,  seated  himself  across  the  aisle  from  George 
and  Hetty,  and  unfolded  a  newspaper.  Hetty  began  at 
once. 

"It  all  happened  very  suddenly.  I  think  they  had 
never  even  met  until  four  months  ago.  He 's  an  impetuous 
person;  from  what  I  hear,  he  soon  swept  her  off  her  feet. 
Of  course,  his  having  been  a  Rough  Rider  in  Cuba  gave 
him  a  certain  picturesqueness,  I  suppose.  She  came  her- 
[  16  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

self  to  tell  me  of  her  engagement.  She  said  that  the  first 
time  she  saw  him,  she  had  been  fascinated  and  hoped 
he  would  fall  in  love  with  her.  In  fact,  she  was  more  like 
a  child  than  a  grown-up  woman  about  it."  Hetty 
glanced  sharply  at  her  brother;  she  hoped  that  without 
actually  doing  Rosamond  an  injustice  she  could  still 
put  George  so  out  of  conceit  with  her  that  his  sense  of 
suffering  would  be  less  than  his  sense  of  escape.  "She 
talked  of  thrills  and  a  beating  heart  when  his  name  was 
announced,  told  how  she  lost  her  tongue  in  his  presence, 
to  recover  it  and  feel  that  with  no  one  had  she  ever  been 
so  brilliant  and  charming  before.  Yet  she  had  thought 
in  the  end  that  he  had  been  rather  indifferent,  and  so 
she  had  gone  home  feeling  quite  unhappy.  But  that  was 
unnecessary;  her  conquest  of  him  was  almost  as  rapid  as 
his  of  her.  She  asked  me,"  continued  Hetty,  "if  there 
was  any  way  of  communicating  with  you.  It  seemed  to  be 
somewhat  on  her  mind  that  she  must  send  you  the  news." 

"I  got  it  in  time,"  replied  George.  "I'm  sorry  it's 
Rappallo  —  superior  and  supercilious  sort  of  fellow.  If 
it  had  been  any  one  of  those  that  were  trying  along 
with  me,  I  should  n't  have  felt  quite  so  cut  up.  I  sup- 
pose I'm  an  idiot,  Hetty,  to  admit  to  you  that  I  am 
rather  cut  up." 

Hetty  gave  him  a  sympathetic  look  and  surreptitiously 
patted  his  hand. 

"Well,  I'm  not  the  only  one,"  George  said,  catching 
and  holding  her  gloved  fingers.  "I  wonder  if  Steve  Fos- 
ter is  going  to  this  function." 

"Yes,  he's  on  the  train  somewhere.  I  saw  him  as  we 
were  passing  through  the  gate." 
I    17    J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"  I  think  I  '11  look  him  up,"  said  George. 

He  passed  on  through  the  car,  pausing  here  and  there 
to  have  a  chat  with  young  ladies  and  elderly  ladies  — 
equally  affable  with  both.  "Yes,  just  back  from  the  ends 
of  the  world  —  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow;  yes, 
so  fortunate  to  have  got  here  just  in  time  for  this  gay 
occasion — "  Hetty  caught  some  of  his  genial  replies 
and  imagined  the  others,  as  she  watched  his  debonair- 
progress  down  the  aisle.  Her  husband  glanced  after 
him  over  the  top  of  his  newspaper. 

"Seems  to  be  bearing  up,"  he  remarked  to  Hetty. 

"Would  n't  you  if  you  felt  that  was  what  every  one 
was  saying  behind  your  back?  "  she  retorted,  with  some 
asperity. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  another  page  of 
the  newspaper.  He  was  really  rather  sorry  for  George, 
whom  he  liked,  but  he  felt  that  George  had  brought  this 
disaster  on  himself  by  being  so  irresponsible,  and  that 
being  so  irresponsible  he  would  not  take  the  disaster 
very  hard.  Philip  Mallory,  proudly  conscious  of  the 
possession  of  a  wife  and  two  children  and  an  obligation 
to  contribute  somewhat  to  their  support,  was  disposed 
to  regard  as  irresponsibly  nomadic  any  unmarried  man 
who  was  fond  of  travel. 

In  the  front  seat  of  the  car  George  found  Stephen 
Foster,  reclining  on  the  small  of  his  back,  his  lanky 
legs  up  in  the  air,  his  chin  in  his  hands,  and  his  eyes 
looking  morosely  out  of  the  window.  George  slipped 
into  the  seat  beside  him  and  aroused  Steve  by  pressing 
his  leg. 

"Hello!"  Foster  turned  and  slid  into  a  more  upright 
[  18  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

position.  He  was  a  tall,  thin  fellow,  with  oblique  eyes, 
an  inadequate  nose,  and  a  whimsical,  dejected  mouth. 
His  skin  was  pale,  his  shoulders  were  narrow;  but  the 
twinkle  in  his  Japanese  brown  eyes  and  the  lift  of  the 
corners  of  his  lips  when  he  smiled  gave  him  an  engaging 
quality  which  caused  people  to  overlook  his  physical 
defects.  "The  last  I  heard  of  you,  you  were  in  Brazil; 
bad  news  must  travel  fast." 

"It  did  n't  travel,  but  I  ran  home  to  hear  it,"  replied 
George.  "With  you  and  the  others  on  the  job  in  my 
absence,  I  had  no  fear  of  a  thing  like  this  happening. 
How  could  you  have  been  so  careless?  " 

"Careless  is  not  the  word,"  replied  Foster,  with  a  bit- 
ter emphasis.  "I  put  her  in  the  way  of  falling  in  love  with 
the  man.  If  it  had  n't  been  for  me,  I  think  positively 
it  never  would  have  happened.  You  may  imagine  how 
I've  been  enjoying  myself!" 

"What  fool  thing  did  you  do?" 

"It  seemed  innocent  enough.  I  asked  her  to  go  with 
me  to  see  an  exhibition  of  rough  riding  by  the  Troop. 
You  know  Rappallo  is  Captain  of  the  Troop.  He  was 
the  hero  of  the  evening.  He  does  ride  splendidly,  and  he 
did  all  kinds  of  daring  and  skillful  feats,  showing  the 
others  how, —  top  man  in  the  pyramid,  vaulting  two 
horses,  and  straddling  a  third  at  a  gallop  with  never  a 
miss,  the  ideal  cavalryman,  and  damnably  handsome 
at  that;  I  dare  say  he  fascinated  more  than  half  the  girls 
in  the  gallery.  Anyway,  after  about  two  minutes  Rosa- 
mond said  she  could  n't  keep  her  eyes  off  him.  A  man 
who  is  six  feet  tall  and  weighs  less  than  a  hundred  and 
thirty-five  pounds  should  never  select  a  rough-riding 
[  19  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

exhibition,  or  any  other  athletic  spectacle  for  the  scene 
of  his  courting." 

Foster  had  slid  down  again  until  his  head  was  below 
the  top  of  the  seat  and  his  thin  knees  were  cocked  up  on 
a  level  with  it. 

"A  good  rule  for  most  of  those  in  the  feather- 
weight class,"  conceded  George.  "  But  for  one  of  your 
attractions,  Steve,  breaking  it  should  have  been  a 
pardonable  indiscretion.  And  so  long  as  she  did  n't 
know  Rappallo,  I  don't  see  why  the  thing  resulted  so 
fatally." 

"There  again  I  was  the  agent,"  said  Foster.  "A  week 
later  I  was  having  supper  with  her  at  a  ball  when  she 
saw  Rappallo  and  told  me  to  bring  him  up.  He  danced 
with  her  practically  all  the  rest  of  the  evening.  They 
were  engaged  within  a  month." 

"I'd  rather  it  had  been  you,  Steve." 

"Thanks;  I  would  n't  have  minded  half  so  much  if 
it  had  been  you.  But  Rappallo  —  of  course,  he 's  a  man 
of  ability;  I  don't  know  him  well;  I  dare  say  that's  the 
chief  trouble  with  him." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  while.  "What  irritates 
me,"  said  Foster,  "is  that  at  this  wedding,  at  which 
either  of  us  might  perfectly  well  have  been  a  principal, 
we  shall  both  be  mere  nobodies.  We  shall  be  ushered  to 
our  seats  by  fellows  that  don't  know  Rosamond  at  all; 
they  '11  be  up  at  the  front,  and  we  shall  be  tucked  away 
in  the  background." 

"Near  enough  for  me,"  asserted  George  gloomily. 

"  We  shan  't  even  be  invited  to  the  bride's  table,"  con- 
tinued Foster.  "  We  shall  just  be  left  to  hang  around 
I  20  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

outside,  while  the  same  lot  of  indifferent  ushers  are  hear- 
ing her  talk  and  getting  her  last  smiles." 

George  made  no  comment,  and  Foster  resumed  after 
a  pause,  "Do  you  know  what  I'm  going  to  do  after  it's 
all  over?  I've  enlisted  as  a  cow-puncher  on  a  cattle 
steamer,  sailing  to-morrow." 

"That's  an  idiotic  idea.   What's  the  point?" 

"I  want  to  work  some  of  the  soreness  out  of  my  mind 
and  into  my  body.  I  'm  disgusted  anyway  with  the  kind 
of  ladylike  life  I  lead  here.  If  I  'd  been  a  Rough  Rider, 
Rappallo  might  not  have  had  such  an  easy  time  of  it. 
I've  never  roughed  it  anywhere;  now  I'm  going  to  cut 
loose." 

"You're  working  your  passage  over,  are  you?  What 
will  you  do  then?  " 

"I  haven't  thought.  I  shall  probably  feel  entitled 
then  to  some  amusement." 

George  laughed.  "You'll  do  better  to  take  passage 
in  the  first  cabin." 

"No,  this  is  a  great  moral  experience  that  I'm  about 
to  undergo.  You  'd  better  share  it  with  me.  Though,  of 
course,  you  don't  need  it;  you  've  had  adventure  enough." 

"It  seems  a  crime  to  let  you  do  such  a  thing  alone; 
some  one  ought  to  go  along  to  look  after  you,"  said 
George. 

"Be  the  man.  We'll  have  a  great  time  in  Europe.  I 
refuse  to  let  this  disappointment  ruin  my  life." 

"I  may  as  well  let  it  ruin  mine;  I'll  go  with  you." 

Foster  again  slid  almost  upright  in  his  amazement.  He 
slapped  George's  leg  and  cried,  "Fine  for  you!  There's 
an  old  shark  on  Atlantic  Avenue;  you  have  to  pay  him 
I  21  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

ten  dollars,  and  he  '11  find  you  a  berth.  I  '11  take  you  to 
him  when  we  go  back  this  afternoon.  You're  a  good 
sport,  George." 

"It's  the  amusement  that  appeals  to  me,  and  not  the 
adventure,"  George  replied. 

The  two  young  men,  laughing  together,  talking  with 
animation,  did  not  present  a  very  satisfactory  appear- 
ance to  the  few  gossipy  observers  in  the  car,  who  would 
have  had  them  pale,  dejected,  silent,  betraying  their 
blighted  condition  in  every  glance  and  gesture.  Yet 
when  they  left  the  train  at  Manchester  and  took  their 
seats  in  one  of  the  barges  that  were  to  carry  the  guests 
to  the  church,  there  was  a  sudden  sobering  of  George's 
mood.  He  was  about  to  look  upon  the  girl  Rosamond 
for  the  last  time.  Hereafter  she  would  be  a  creature 
altered,  absorbed,  remote,  never  any  more  to  be  the 
companion  spirit  of  his  imagination,  the  very  impulse 
of  his  dreams. 

Before  a  rustic  little  wooden  church  the  barge  drew 
up.  George  Brandon  and  Steve  Foster,  though  they 
had  been  sitting  together,  here  chose  to  separate.  George 
loitered  a  moment  on  the  path;  the  white  rail  fence  in 
the  shadow  of  the  row  of  maple  trees,  the  dusty  road 
climbing  the  hill  and  dotted  with  gay  equipages,  and  in 
the  near  foreground  a  young  woman  in  white  leading  a 
small  bare-legged  child  made  a  picture  that  afterwards 
recurred  irrelevantly  whenever  he  thought  of  that  day. 

The  organ  was  playing  softly  as  he  entered  the  church, 

and  there  was  the  airy  fragrance  of  summer  flowers  in 

the  bright  interior.   The  sunlight  streamed  through  the 

stained-glass  windows  upon  the  masses  of  clematis  and 

I    22    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

golden  glow  framing  the  chancel,  gleamed  on  the  golden 
cross  above  the  altar  and  the  golden  eagle  on  the  pulpit, 
and  enriched  the  rows  of  brightly  dressed,  expectant 
ladies.  George  Brandon  declined  the  offer  of  an  usher 
to  lead  him  up  the  aisle,  and  seated  himself  in  one  of  the 
rear  pews. 

Presently  the  quiet  rustle  and  bustle  of  people  pass- 
ing to  their  seats  entirely  ceased;  the  organist  began  a 
more  solemn  and  commanding  strain,  the  hush  of  the 
congregation  but  half  disguised  the  lurking  excitement. 
The  clergyman  in  his  robes  appeared  in  the  chancel; 
Graham  Rappallo,  tall,  dark,  unsmiling,  stepped  from 
the  vestry  room;  the  wedding  march  pealed  forth;  and 
the  congregation  rose. 

George,  standing  next  to  the  aisle,  turned  his  head. 
The  procession  of  ushers  slowly  passed,  disclosing  the 
bride  and  her  father.  The  veil  was  drawn  back  from  her 
face;  George  met  her  eyes.  There  was  a  sudden  startled 
rush  of  color  to  her  cheeks,  which  had  been  pale.  Then, 
clinging  to  her  father's  arm,  and  gazing  straight  down 
the  long  aisle  at  the  end  of  which  stood  the  man  who  was 
to  be  her  husband,  she  passed,  the  filmy  lace  of  her  veil 
brushing  George's  sleeve. 


CHAPTER  III 

A   VERY   WELL-BEHAVED   YOUNG  MAN 

ON  the  broad  veranda  overlooking  the  sea  Rosamond 
and  her  husband  received  the  wedding  guests. 
George  Brandon,  moving  slowly  with  the  stream,  had 
glimpses  of  the  pair  as  they  stood  with  their  backs  against 
the  screen  of  clematis;  more  than  ever  before  were  his 
eyes  allured  by  Rosamond's  face.  She  was  no  longer 
pale;  the  radiance  of  an  attained  happiness  gave  bril- 
liancy to  her  color  and  to  her  glance.  She  was  a  fair 
creature —  to  George  the  very  personification  of  all  that 
was  bright,  sunny,  and  kind,  her  tall  stateliness  sur- 
mounted by  a  face  of  no  handsome  coldness,  but  eager 
and  engaging.  The  husband  at  her  side  stood  with  a 
martial  rigor,  accepting  congratulations  rather  than 
offering  himself  to  them  with  enthusiasm;  to  George  it 
was  a  matter  of  amazement  that  he  could  exhibit  so 
little  emotion;  it  caused  George  to  feel  guiltily  conscious 
of  his  own  lack  of  self-control. 

"Oh,  Dr.  Brandon!"  said  a  soft  voice,  and  George 
turned  to  behold  Ruth,  Rosamond's  younger  sister, 
smiling  and  eager  as  the  bride.  He  had  always  thought 
of  Ruth  as  a  mere  child,  but  she  had  now,  to  fill  the 
place  of  maid  of  honor,  blossomed  forth  as  a  young 
lady,  to  her  obvious  delight.  "You  aren't  noticing 
your  grown-up  little  friend,  Dr.  Brandon,"  she  said, 
giving  him  her  hand. 

[    24    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

"So  I  was  n't,"  he  admitted.  "And  I'm  very  glad  to 
have  my  attention  called  to  her.  What  a  pretty  hat!" 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so! "  She  exhibited  both  sides  and 
the  back  of  it,  flattered  by  such  interest.  "Rosamond 
picked  it  out  for  me.  You  don't  know  what  a  thing  it  is 
to  have  your  first  feather."  She  cast  a  complacent  up- 
ward eye  at  the  soft  blue  plume  that  overhung  her  hat- 
brim.  "Have  you  just  come  home,  Dr.  Brandon?" 

"Only  this  morning." 

"Is  South  America  very  exciting,  full  of  snakes  and 
jungles  and  jaguars?" 

"Well,  yes,  in  some  places." 

"We  were  afraid  you  might  be  lost,  or  hurt,  or  some- 
thing." 

"Really?  Why?" 

Ruth  blushed  suddenly,  and  then  felt  she  had  be- 
trayed herself.  She  floundered.  "Not  hearing  from  you 
—  Rosamond,  at  least  —  she  spoke  of  it  at  first  —  only 
at  first,  that  is;  of  course,  after  a  while  she  heard  from 
your  sister  that  you  had  written  and  were  all  right." 

"Was  Rosamond  expecting  to  hear  from  me?"  He 
felt  it  was  hardly  a  fair  question,  but  a  morbid  desire 
pressed  him  on. 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  At  least  —  "  Ruth  paused,  evidently 
in  doubt  as  to  how  much  she  ought  to  disclose,  and  then 
yielded  to  the  frankness  of  youth.  "I  know  this  much; 
when  she  went  up  to  Canada  on  a  visit,  she  told  me  to 
be  sure  to  forward  to  her  at  once  any  letters  from  South 
America.  You  know — "  Ruth  shyly  looked  at  him 
and  then  betrayed  her  own  state  of  mind  by  exclaiming, 
"Oh,  why  did  n't  you  write?" 
[  25  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

George  shook  hands  with  her,  and  subsided  again  into 
the  current  that  was  moving  towards  the  bride  and 
groom. 

What  a  capacity  he  had  for  blundering!  With  his 
quick  imagination,  which  was  always  friendly  to  his 
own  hopes  and  interests,  he  reconstructed  the  processes 
of  Rosamond's  mind.  She  had  been  fascinated  by  Rap- 
pallo  and  yet  perhaps  waited  wistfully  for  the  word  that 
might  brace  her  soul  in  its  wavering  and  weakness.  And 
he  had  not  sent  it  to  her  aid!  So  at  last  the  warrior's 
compulsion  had  overridden  the  sound  protest  of  her 
heart  and  brain;  she  had  surrendered  to  the  dominion 
of  eye  and  blood.  The  blush  that  had  streamed  over  her 
face  when  she  had  passed  George  in  the  church  was  cor- 
roborative evidence.  George  was  able  even  to  feel  pity 
for  her  in  what  must  have  been  the  catastrophe  of  dis- 
covering him  in  the  congregation.  He  felt  that  now,  in 
approaching  her  and  her  husband  for  the  congratula- 
tory word,  he  was  preparing  for  her  an  ordeal  —  though 
to  be  sure,  she  would  now  have  herself  in  hand. 

His  inferences  afforded  him  a  measure  of  melancholy 
gratification,  and  exalted  him  spiritually  above  the  low 
level  of  Steve  Foster,  whom  he  had  observed  drinking  the 
sparkling  waters  of  Lethe  in  the  white  marquee  which 
adorned  an  edge  of  the  lawn.  Small  tables  were  set  out 
on  the  grass,  and  the  guests  were  disposing  themselves 
at  these,  but  Foster  and  several  other  young  men  pre- 
ferred to  make  their  libations  at  the  shrine  itself.  George, 
catching  glimpses  now  of  these  young  men,  and  now  of 
the  smiling  bride  and  her  self-contained  husband,  felt 
that  the  matter  was  too  tragic  for  champagne. 
[  26  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

He  was  progressing  more  rapidly,  the  bride  and  groom 
seemed  to  be  dealing  with  their  guests  at  an  accelerated 
speed.  A  panic  suddenly  overcame  him;  he  had  nothing 
to  say,  and  he  must  not  betray  any  emotion!  For  his 
own  sake,  for  Rosamond's. 

He  smoothed  down  his  coat,  gave  a  nervous  twist  to 
his  mustache  —  and  then  Rosamond  was  before  him. 

"  George! "  she  cried,  and  she  did  not  release  his  hand. 
"  I  could  n't  believe  it  was  you !  When  did  you  get  home? 
Were  n't  you  nice  to  come !  Oh,  I  'm  crazy  to  know  all 
about  it!" 

She  was  keeping  a  stiff  enough  upper  lip.  For  all  his 
resolve,  it  was  more  than  he  could  do;  his  own  lip 
twitched  in  an  uncontrollable  tremor.  He  found  himself 
passing  on,  speechless,  to  Rosamond's  husband.  There 
was  staunchness  in  Rappallo's  grasp  of  his  hand,  there 
was  honesty  and  kindliness  in  the  look  of  Rappallo's 
gray  eyes,  but  they  did  n't  help;  George  failed  to  achieve 
utterance,  and  with  a  sensation  of  having  crowned  a 
career  of  failure  with  an  episode  of  shame,  he  fled  to  the 
white  marquee.  Instead,  at  the  last  moment,  of  hav- 
ing made  her  feel  sorry  for  herself,  he  had  merely  made 
her  feel  sorry  for  him.  His  sense  of  significance  which 
had  been  so  exalting  had  vanished,  and  with  it  his  dig- 
nified superiority  to  the  ministrations  of  champagne. 
Steve  Foster  filled  a  glass  for  him  and  one  for  himself, 
performing  the  operation  with  a  noticeable  gravity; 
with  an  even  greater  gravity  he  touched  his  glass  to 
George's. 

"Her  health,"  he  said,  and  after  tossing  off  the  bumper 
he  was  sufficiently  maudlin  to  add,  "God  bless  her!" 
[    27    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

The  spectacle  of  this  deranged  sentimentalist  enabled 
George  to  right  himself.  "You're  laying  a  foundation 
for  seasickness,"  he  observed. 

"  My  dear  old  fuss-budget,  if  you  '11  only  lace  yourself 
well  with  champagne,  you  won't  know  what  seasickness 
is,"  declared  Foster  cheerfully. 

"That  may  be  true  if  the  voyage  is  short  enough. 
But  you're  going  on  a  cattle  steamer.  Besides,  you've 
got  to  remember  that  you  're  to  take  me  to  that  book- 
ing-agent when  we  get  back  to  Boston  this  after- 
noon." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  He's  a  friend  of  mine;  he'll  do 
anything  I  say." 

"If  we  start  now,  we  can  get  » -train  ahead  of  this 
crowd.  That  will  give  me  plenty  of  time  to  see  the  agent, 
do  my  packing,  and  make  all  my  arrangements." 

"Leave  now!"  Foster  was  aghast  at  the  idea.  "My 
dear  fellow,  I  Ve  just  begun  to  enjoy  myself.  So  far  "  — 
he  remembered  to  add  —  "  as  it 's  possible  to  enjoy  one 's 
self  on  an  essentially  sad  occasion.  Come,  George,  join 
me  and  let  us  drown  our  woes  in  wine." 

George  felt  that  his  responsibility  for  Foster  had  al- 
ready begun.  "Look  here,  Steve,"  he  said  pleadingly, 
"if  I'm  to  go  with  you  to-morrow,  I  have  little  enough 
time  to  make  all  my  arrangements.  Won't  you  give  up 
an  hour  of  this  for  the  sake  of  helping  me  get  started 
right  —  as  long  as  I'm  going  over  with  you?" 

An  appeal  to  Foster's  generosity  always  had  him  at 
a  disadvantage. 

"  All  right,"  he  said  tractably.  "  Only  let 's  have  one 
more  drink  before  we  start." 

[    28    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"Just  one." 

Again  with  solemnity  Foster  filled  the  glasses.  "To 
you  know  whom,"  he  said,  and  he  drank  with  the  air  of 
one  performing  an  act  of  reverence.  Then  he  suffered 
George  to  lead  him  away  from  the  white  marquee;  they 
passed  along  the  edge  of  the  lawn  on  which  now  sat  jolly 
little  luncheon  parties,  and  approached  the  house  just 
as  Rosamond  and  her  husband  were  descending  the 
veranda  steps.  The  sun  shone  on  the  ringlets  of  Rosa- 
mond's hair,  translating  its  dark  brown  hue  to  a  soft 
bronze;  as  she  passed  she  glanced  at  Foster  and  at 
George  with  a  questioning  look  and  smile.  George  inter- 
preted it:  "I  am  so  happy  to-day;  please  won't  you  be 
happy  too?"  v 

In  the  train  to  Boston,  Foster  slumbered  and  left 
George  free  to  look  out  of  the  window  and  dream. 
That  sunlight  on  her  hair  —  bringing  out  the  red  gold 
in  it  and,  when  one  was  close  enough  to  see,  revealing 
a  myriad  little  rainbow  lights  —  he  had  first  noticed  it 
one  afternoon  when  they  sat  together  in  a  canoe  far  up 
the  Charles  River.  It  was  the  afternoon  when  he  had 
first  told  her  that  he  loved  her.  Never,  so  long  as  he 
lived,  could  he  escape  from  the  allurement  of  her  eyes 
and  of  those  soft  and  brilliant  lights  in  her  hair. 

As  the  train  entered  the  North  Station,  Foster  awoke 
and  bewailed  his  frightful  thirst.  George  would  not 
permit  him  to  allay  it  until  after  the  business  with  the 
agent  on  Atlantic  Avenue  had  been  transacted.  This 
having  been  accomplished  and  George  having  parted 
with  ten  dollars,  for  the  privilege  of  feeding  and  watering 
cattle  for  the  next  twelve  days,  he  hailed  a  eab,  and 
[  29  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

yielding  to  Foster's  entreaties  and  demands,  deposited 
him  at  his  club. 

He  himself  continued  on  to  his  lodgings,  where  he  soon 
had  the  incurious  Walter  deeply  involved  in  his  prepa- 
rations for  departure.  , 


CHAPTER  IV 

A   RESCUE   AT   SEA 

THE  Catalonia  was  to  sail  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning;  according  to  instructions  George  pre- 
sented himself  on  the  dock  at  half-past  six.  Neither 
Foster  nor  the  cattle  had  yet  appeared;  two  green- 
looking  Irishmen  returning  for  a  visit  to  the  old  coun- 
try and  two  recent  graduates  from  Dartmouth  College 
were  waiting  to  present  credentials  similar  to  his  own. 
The  cattle  foreman,  a  big,  red-faced,  red-haired  man, 
with  small  eyes  and  a  brutal  mouth,  led  them  all  to  a 
room  with  bunks  built  on  each  side  and  a  table  and 
benches  in  the  middle.  He  said,  "Stow  your  duds,  and 
don't  spend  no  time  in  prinking." 

Presently  the  cattle  came  trampling  aboard,  bawling, 
bellowing,  darkening  the  already  dark  interior,  filling 
the  place  with  the  rancid  odor  of  over-heated,  steaming 
animals.  When  they  had  been  made  fast  to  their  stan- 
chions and  watered,  it  was  within  ten  minutes  of  the 
time  of  sailing,  and  Steve  Foster  had  not  yet  appeared. 
George  felt  angry  with  him  and  at  the  same  time  re- 
lieved. The  expedition  was  a  foolish  one,  and  it  was 
rather  fortunate  that  Steve  had  escaped  it  by  getting 
drunk.  George  at  once  decided  not  to  persevere  in  an 
adventure  which  could  only  be  unprofitable  and  on 
which  he  had  embarked  mainly  through  amiable  will- 
ingness to  be  of  service  to  a  disconsolate  and  incom- 
[  31  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

petent  friend.  He  therefore  slipped  into  the  bunk- 
room,  hastily  gathered  up  his  clothes  and  crammed 
them  into  his  bag,  put  on  his  hat,  and  started  for  the 
gangway. 

The  foreman  was  guarding  it  and  confronted  him. 
"You're  a  quitter,  are  you?"  said  the  foreman.  "Well, 
nobody  quits  that  once  gets  aboard." 

"I've  changed    my    mind  about  sailing,"  replied 
George.    "Call  it  quitting  if  you  like." 

He  endeavored  to  push  by  the  foreman.  The  next 
instant  the  impact  of  a  powerful  fist  on  the  point  of  his 
jaw  stretched  him  senseless. 

The  two  Dartmouth  graduates  who  had  been  watch- 
ing the  proceedings  ran  forward.  The  foreman,  smoking 
his  pipe,  regarded  them  with  amusement. 

"Haul  him  away  and  bring  him  to,"  he  ordered.  "And 
don't  no  more  of  you  get  rambunctious." 

One  of  the  men  brought  a  bucket  of  water  while  the 
other  fanned  George's  face  with  his  hat.  The  foreman 
smoked  unconcernedly  during  the  process  of  revival. 
After  a  few  moments  George  regained  a  dazed  conscious- 
ness and  was  led  into  the  bunkroom.  He  sat  on  the  edge 
of  his  berth  holding  his  aching  head  in  his  hands,  and 
awoke  by  degrees  to  an  understanding  of  his  injury.  He 
deliberated  upon  it,  and  the  more  he  deliberated  the 
more  intolerable  it  seemed;  he  got  to  his  feet,  and  the 
fact  that  he  felt  weak  and  unsteady  on  them  only  in- 
flamed his  resolution.  The  quality  of  it  must  have  shown 
in  his  face,  for  one  of  the  young  men,  Sidney  Hanford 
by  name,  plucked  him  by  the  arm  and  said  anxiously, 
"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 
[  32  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"I'm  going  ashore,"  said  George,  "and  if  that  fellow 
tries  to  stop  me,  I'll  kill  him." 

"You  can't  go  ashore,"  explained  Hanford.  "We're 
moving." 

It  was  true;  the  ship  had  cast  off  while  George  was 
lying  unconscious,  and  now  the  throb  of  her  engines 
communicated  itself  to  his  dulled  senses. 

He  seated  himself  again  on  the  edge  of  his  bunk  and 
again  took  his  head  in  his  hands.  "  You  'd  better  lie  down 
for  a  while,"  advised  Cole,  the  other  Dartmouth  man. 
"There!  They're  opening  up  the  hatches,  and  you'll 
get  some  fresh  air  and  soon  you  can  go  out  on  deck. 
You'd  better  lie  quiet  for  a  while." 

"Thanks,  I  will.  Don't  bother  with  me;  I  shall  be 
all  right  soon." 

He  remained  with  his  hands  pressed  against  his  head, 
—  as  if  trying  to  press  back  into  coherence  thoughts 
which  had  been  jarred  loose,  —  and  his  companions 
departed  to  breathe  the  outer  air. 

Resentment  and  a  desire  for  revenge  assumed  such 
sway  over  George's  mind  that  at  first  his  calamitous 
situation  did  not  trouble  him.  He  was  without  weapons, 
he  weighed  at  least  fifty  pounds  less  than  the  foreman, 
but  so  savage  was  his  wrath  that  he  felt  if  he  ever  nursed 
his  strength  back  he  could  kill  the  bully  with  his  bare 
hands. 

The  fresh  air  blowing  through  the  cabin  soon  drew 
George  up  on  the  lower  starboard  deck.  Then,  as  he  saw 
the  green  islands  of  the  harbor  receding  and  Bostor. 
Light  pricking  up  out  of  the  blue  distance  ahead,  with 
nothing  beyond  it  but  open  sea,  his  original  desire  to 
[  33  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

escape  from  an  absurd  predicament  thrust  other  thoughts 
aside  —  even  the  lust  for  revenge. 

The  sea  was  smooth;  he  was  a  good  swimmer.  Even 
if  he  could  not  make  the  nearest  shore,  he  could  keep 
afloat  in  that  warm  water  indefinitely  —  that  is,  until 
one  of  the  numerous  passing  boats  should  pick  him  up. 
He  looked  over  the  rail;  it  was  only  a  few  feet  above 
the  water,  and  the  steamer  was  not  moving  rapidly.  No 
one  was  looking  at  him;  the  foreman  was  not  visible;  the 
other  hands  were  apparently  all  out  on  the  port  deck. 

He  took  off  his  shoes  and  trousers  and  climbed  up  on 
the  rail.  There  he  balanced  himself  a  moment,  clinging 
to  a  stanchion  and  casting  a  backward  glance.  No  one 
saw  him.  He  took  a  long  breath  and  dived  far  out. 

Under  water  he  swam  as  far  as  he  could.  When  he 
came  up  and  shook  the  brine  from  his  eyes,  he  saw  the 
stern  of  the  steamer  towering  up  not  more  than  a  hun- 
dred feet  away;  the  next  instant  with  an  amazing  sud- 
denness, a  figure  came  flying  out  from  the  upper  deck 
and  plunged  into  the  water  not  far  off. 

The  cry,  "Man  overboard!"  was  shouted  from  one 
to  another,  people  ran  about  the  decks  and  peered  down; 
in  a  moment  some  sailors  were  rapidly  getting  a  boat 
ready  for  lowering.  Escape  for  George  was  now  quite 
impossible,  and  he  accepted  rescue  with  resignation, 
which  changed  to  stupefaction  and  disgust  when  he  saw 
that  the  face  of  the  approaching  swimmer  was,  for  him, 
the  most  unwelcome  face  in  all  the  world. 

"Hello,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  as  casually  as  if  they 
were  meeting  on  Boston  Common.  "How  are  you, 
Rappallo?" 

[    34    ] 


The  sun  had  been  in  Graham  Rappallo's  eyes;  he  stood 
up  to  tread  water  and  gaze  at  this  object  of  his  heroism 
who  greeted  him  thus  familiarly. 

"Hello,  Brandon,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "I  never 
dreamed  it  was  you." 

"It  certainly  is  quite  a  shock  to  find  it's  you,"  replied 
George. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  up  to?  You  don't  look  as  if 
you  were  trying  to  drown  yourself." 

"Nothing  was  further  from  my  mind;  I  was  simply 
trying  to  escape  from  the  cattle  deck.  Steve  Foster 
talked  me  into  going  over  with  him  as  a  cattle  man,  and 
then  failed  to  show  up.  I  decided  I  did  n't  care  to  go 
alone;  that 's  all.  I  can  make  the  shore  all  right,  if  they  '11 
only  let  me." 

"I'm  afraid  they  won't,"  said  Rappallo;  he  looked 
back  at  the  ship's  boat,  which  was  now  in  the  water. 
"They'll  take  you  aboard  in  spite  of  yourself.  But  you 
must  come  up  into  the  cabin;  I'll  fix  things  with  the 
purser." 

"I'd  rather  not,  thank  you."  George  was  silent  a 
moment.  "If  you  just  would  n't  tell  Rosamond  it  was 
me,  it  would  be  decent  of  you;  I'd  be  everlastingly 
obliged." 

"I'll  not  tell  her,"  Rappallo  promised.  He  felt  sorry 
for  George,  and  uncomfortable  himself  at  having  un- 
wittingly imposed  this  humiliation  on  him.  He  thrashed 
about  in  the  water  in  an  effort  not  to  seem  too  studious 
of  the  other's  plight.  George  floated  in  a  resigned  si- 
lence and  watched  the  boat  draw  near.  He  could  faintly 
see  the  faces  of  the  people  on  board  the  ship,  which  had 
[  35  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

stopped  some  distance  off.  He  knew  that  among  them, 
anxiously  gazing,  was  Rosamond,  and  even  at  this  dis- 
tance he  hardly  dared  to  raise  his  eyes. 

Rappallo  paddled  close.  "If  you  're  going  to  be  abroad 
for  a  while,"  he  said,  "our  address  is  Barings'.  We  might 
get  together  some  time." 

"Thanks,"  said  George.  "But  I  expect  I  shall  want 
to  take  the  first  steamer  back  and  punch  Steve  Foster's 
head." 

A  few  moments  more  and  he  was  hauled  into  the 
ship's  boat,  where  he  sat  huddled  in  the  stern,  not  lift- 
ing up  his  eyes  lest  he  should  be  recognized  by  Rosa- 
mond. He  had  a  curious  shame  of  having  her  see  him 
thus  brought  back  to  captivity;  he  felt  that  he  could 
trust  her  husband  not  to  betray  him.  Because  of  this 
desire  to  shield  himself  from  her  observation,  his  appear- 
ance in  the  boat  was  more  hang-dog  than  he  would  have 
had  it.  And  when  he  was  deposited  on  the  cattle  deck, 
the  foreman,  his  big  arms  crossed  upon  his  chest,  stood 
there  surveying  him  with  a  triumphant  sneer. 

"You  are  a  quitter,  you  are!"  said  the  foreman. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   RESCUER 

IF  to  his  fellow  cabin  passengers  Graham  Rappallo 
had  become  within  an  hour  of  sailing  an  object  of 
interest  and  admiration,  in  the  eyes  of  his  wife  he  had 
been  transfigured.  From  the  day  of  her  engagement  to 
him  up  to  the  moment  when  he  had  leaped  overboard, 
she  had  been  frightened  by  doubts  whether  she  really 
loved  him  enough;  moments  of  distrust  had  alternated 
with  moments  of  enthusiasm.  The  appearance  of  George 
Brandon  at  the  wedding  had  disconcerted  her,  had  com- 
pelled her  imagination  to  dwell  on  the  often  considered 
vision  which  at  the  same  instant  was  so  poignantly 
in  George's  mind  —  suppose  she  were  standing  before 
the  altar  with  George  at  her  side  instead  of  Graham ! 
Even  while  the  words  of  the  marriage  service  were  being 
read,  she  felt  an  agitating  uncertainty  whether  in  that 
moment,  if  she  had  the  power,  she  would  not  exercise 
it  to  cause  those  two  men  to  change  places.  George 
charmed  her  and  pleased  her;  the  unexpected  glimpse  of 
him  as  she  moved  up  the  aisle  had  given  her  a  start  of 
true  romance,  so  that  when  she  raised  her  eyes  to  meet 
those  of  the  man  who  was  to  be  her  husband,  she  did  not 
feel  the  anticipated  thrill.  The  great  event  of  her  life 
she  had  passed  through,  giving  it  but  a  perfunctory  at- 
tention, her  mind  in  a  haze  of  troubled  and  futile  ques- 
tioning —  and  when  she  realized  that  she  had  left  the 
1  37  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

church  and  was  seated  in  the  carriage  beside  her  hus- 
band she  had  cried  out,  "Oh,  Graham,  I  want  to 
go  back  and  be  married  all  over  again!"  And  he  had 
interpreted  that  as  an  expression  of  her  rapturous 
contentment. 

What  she  had  needed  was  a  demonstration  on  which 
to  build  anew  her  failing  faith  —  faith  in  him  and  in 
herself.  The  morning  after  her  marriage  had  providen- 
tially supplied  it.  She  had  been  walking  with  him  on  the 
deck  when  he  had  suddenly  broken  from  her,  cried, 
"Man  overboard!"  and  dived  to  the  rescue  —  clearing 
the  rail  with  a  magnificent  bound  and  shooting  down 
with  an  arrowy  flight  while  she  stood  frightened  and 
speechless.  Then  when  she  saw  his  head  emerge,  saw 
him  start  with  an  overhand  stroke  for  the  distant  swim- 
mer, comprehension  of  his  act  thrilled  her  through  and 
through  with  pride  and  love.  He  had  done  this  deed  of 
daring  and  had  not  been  hurt;  she  leaned  on  the  rail 
and  watched  the  apparent  rescue  with  a  blissful  compla- 
cency. She  had  known  her  husband  was  brave;  to  have 
him  proved  heroic  the  day  after  their  marriage  and  in 
the  sight  of  all  filled  her  to  overflowing  with  the  emotion 
which  she  must  cherish  for  her  lord. 

"There,  he's  got  him!  How  splendid  of  your  hus- 
band ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  George  Vasmer. 

"What  a  frightfully  high  dive  it  was!"  mused  Mrs. 
Vasmer's  daughter  Dorothy. 

They  addressed  their  comments  to  Rosamond,  for 

they  had  made  their  way  as  soon  as  possible  after  the 

sensational  happening  to  her  side.     And  for  the  first 

time  she  was  glad  that  they  were  on  board;  hitherto, 

[    38    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

although  Dorothy  was  one  of  her  best  friends,  she  had 
been  disposed  to  resent  their  presence.  In  taking  pas- 
sage on  a  slow  cattle  steamer  she  and  Graham  had 
counted  rather  confidently  on  evading  the  observation 
and  society  of  their  acquaintances.  It  had  seemed  a 
strange  mischance  to  find  Mrs.  Vasmer,  with  her  opu- 
lent purse  and  aristocratic  tastes,  on  such  a  boat  —  a 
mischance  due  to  the  fact  that  she  was  susceptible  to 
seasickness  and  had  heard  that  the  stability  of  the 
Catalonia  gave  comfort  to  the  qualmish.  Now  Rosa- 
mond was  grateful  to  the  mischance  —  rejoiced  that 
Dorothy  was  on  board  to  report  Graham's  heroism  and 
spread  the  fame  of  it. 

Dorothy  and  her  mother  speculated  with  Rosamond 
as  to  the  nature  of  the  poor  wretch  now  in  process  of 
rescue,  and  the  cause  of  his  predicament.  Mrs.  Vasmer 
inclined  to  the  belief  that  he  was  some  unfortunate  who 
had  undertaken  to  kill  himself;  her  daughter  pointed 
out  that  he  had  been  keeping  afloat  and  suggested  that 
he  might  be  a  stoker  who  had  been  temporarily  crazed 
by  the  heat.  In  support  of  this  theory  she  called  atten- 
tion to  the  man's  scanty  attire.  Rosamond  thought  that 
probably  he  was  one  of  the  sailors  who  had  fallen  over- 
board by  accident.  She  was  not  much  concerned  with 
his  personality,  and  as  the  ship's  boat  drew  alongside, 
she  cast  only  a  compassionate  glance  down  at  the  half- 
clad,  bowed-over  wretch  who  sat  in  the  stern.  Her  hus- 
band, with  his  sleek  and  glistening  black  head,  his  cling- 
ing pink  shirt  and  soggy  white  flannel  trousers,  had  all 
her  eyes. 

Anyway,  it  was  the  part  of  modesty  not  to  look  too 
[  39  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

closely  while  the  human  derelict  —  as  the  ladies  agreed 
in  picturing  him  —  scrambled  out  of  the  boat  upon  the 
lower  deck.  There  was  no  reason,  however,  for  with- 
drawing their  eyes  when  Graham  Rappallo  was  hoisted 
into  nearer  view.  There  were  smiles  for  him  and  a  faint 
cheer,  and  a  young  woman  who  wore  glasses  leveled  a 
camera  at  him  with  great  deliberation  and  took  his  pic- 
ture while  he  was  still  in  the  small  boat  and  powerless 
to  protect  himself. 

He  would  not  wait  even  for  a  word  or  a  glance  from 
his  wife,  but  ran  to  his  stateroom,  where  she  followed 
as  rapidly  as  possible  and  conducted  herself  in  a  manner 
which  he  found  somewhat  embarrassing  but  exceedingly 
gratifying. 

"Oh,  Graham,  I  never  knew  before  how  much  I  love 
you!"  she  exclaimed  when  in  dry  clothes  once  more  he 
stood  before  the  mirror  brushing  his  glossy  black  hair. 
She  sat  on  the  sofa  and  looked  up  at  him  wistfully. 

"Did  n't  you,  Rosamond?  "  he  said,  shooting  down  at 
her  an  amused  and  happy  glance.  "That 's  worth  a  duck- 
ing any  time." 

"If  anything  had  happened  to  you  when  you  took  that 
reckless  dive,  I  could  never  have  borne  it,  Graham;  I 
should  have  wanted  to  jump  overboard  too.  A  week 
ago  I  could  n't  have  felt  that  way." 

"Ah,"  he  said,  suddenly  turning  and  seizing  her,  "you 
are  going  to  love  me,  you  are,  you  are!" 

It  was  one  of  those  instant  bursts  of  passion  that 

pleased  and  scared  her  because  they  were  as  yet  so  novel. 

How  they  would  affect  her  when  she  became  more  used 

to  them  she  had  not  hitherto  been  able  to  foretell,  but 

[    40    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

now  she  knew.  She  would  never  be  too  scared  by  them 
any  more. 

"Who  was  the  man,  Graham?"  she  asked  presently. 
"Was  he  trying  to  drown  himself?" 

"Oh,  not  at  all.  He  was  a  poor  devil  of  a  cattle  hand 
who  had  suddenly  got  homesick  and  decided  to  swim 
ashore;  that  was  all.  He  might  have  made  it;  it  seemed 
almost  a  pity  to  bring  him  back  when  he  wanted  to  go 
home." 

"Some  time  we  must  go  down  together  and  see  him 
and  try  to  do  something  for  him,"  said  Rosamond. 

"No,  don't  you  think  of  it,"  exclaimed  her  husband. 
"He'd  hate  that.  The  kindest  thing  we  can  do  for  him 
is  to  let  him  alone.  He  does  n't  want  to  feel  that  he 's  an 
object  of  pity;  he's  morbid  enough  as  it  is." 

"Of  course  a  man  does  n't  like  to  be  pitied  by  a  man," 
said  Rosamond.  "But  by  a  nice,  compassionate,  sym- 
pathetic woman — " 

"Don't  you  do  it!"  cried  Graham,  laughing.  "No, 
dear,  honestly  I  know  he'd  much  rather  be  let  alone." 

He  said  it  with  such  conviction  that  Rosamond  was 
impressed  and  somewhat  reluctantly  abandoned  the 
idea  which  had  popped  into  her  head  —  the  idea  of  being 
a  ministering  angel  and  thus  the  fit  and  worthy  comple- 
ment of  her  hero  husband. 

It  was  a  luxury  to  find  him  regarded  as  that  by  every 
one  on  board,  to  note  the  open  admiration  behind  the 
young  woman  photographer's  glasses,  the  beaming  ap- 
proval which  was  in  Mrs.  Vasmer's  eyes,  the  venerating 
glow  which  was  in  her  daughter  Dorothy's.  These  were 
manifestations  which  were  most  immediately  and  agree- 
[  41  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

ably  apparent  to  a  woman.  And  Rosamond  valued 
almost  as  much  the  captain's  remark  to  her  —  "Your 
husband  is  prompt,  Mrs.  Rappallo  —  prompt.  I  under- 
stand he  has  been  a  soldier." 

This  understanding,  which  somehow  crept  about  the 
ship,  enhanced  the  glamour  that  was  enveloping  Graham. 
Rosamond  would  have  been  glad  to  rehearse  to  some  of 
the  eager  ladies  anecdotes  of  her  husband's  exploits 
under  fire.  Unfortunately  he  had  never  told  her  much 
about  these  experiences.  "He  does  n't  like  to  talk  about 
them  —  too  horrible,"  she  said  to  Dorothy  Vasmer; 
and  Dorothy  sighed  and  felt  that  her  friend's  husband 
possessed  inexhaustible  depths  of  romance. 

Graham  himself  ascribed  the  interest  of  the  passen- 
gers in  him  to  the  fact  that  he  was  a  bridegroom.  He  sat 
in  his  steamer  chair  and  read  "The  Napoleonic  Wars." 
He  said  to  Rosamond  that  they  must  visit  some  of  the 
great  battlefields  —  Wagram  and  Lodi  and  Waterloo; 
it  would  be  interesting  to  study  them. 

"I  know  about  Waterloo,"  said  Rosamond  eagerly. 
"It  was  the  sunken  road  at  Ohain  that  lost  the  battle 
for  the  French,  —  when  their  cavalry  charged  over  the 
bluff  and  piled  up  in  the  ravine." 

"That  was  the  detail  that  Victor  Hugo  seized  on," 
replied  Graham.  "It  appealed  to  his  imagination,  and 
he  made  the  battle  turn  on  it.  When  we  go  over  the  bat- 
tlefield, I  '11  show  you  how  little  that  episode  actually 
had  to  do  with  the  result." 

He  fixed  his  eyes  again  upon  his  book,  continuing, 
however,  to  caress  her  hand  under  the  steamer  rug. 
She  did  not  resume  her  reading  of  her  novel;  she  was 
[  42  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

more  content  to  lie  back  and  watch  her  husband  and 
enjoy  the  sensation  of  his  caress.  Looking  at  him,  she 
meditated  upon  all  that  he  knew  of  which  she  was  igno- 
rant, all  the  experiences  that  he  had  been  through  which 
she  had  never  shared,  and  it  seemed  to  her  strange  and 
wonderful  that  all  this  knowledge  and  experience  had 
suddenly  been  incorporated  into  her  own  life.  She  felt 
that  now,  insensibly,  it  was  part  of  her,  and  the  thought 
gave  her  a  proud  happiness.  She  looked  at  her  husband 
and  pictured  him  in  his  khaki  uniform,  leading  a  charge 
up  a  bare  hillside  under  a  tropic  sun,  pointing  forward 
with  his  saber  while  he  looked  back  to  urge  on  his  men 
—  the  posture  was  transferred  to  her  mind  from  some 
old  picture-book  of  her  more  tender  years.  It  seemed 
incredible  that  this  quiet  figure  by  her  side  should  have 
moved  amidst  the  roar  of  cannon  and  the  storm  of 
bullets,  should  have  seen  men  fal|  dead  and  dying  round 
him  while  he  himself  pressed  on,  intrepid,  into  the  thick- 
est of  the  carnage,  should  perhaps  not  only  have  seen 
violent  death  but  dealt  it  —  no,  no,  that  was  a  question 
that  she  would  never  ask,  that  was  a  thing  which  she 
wished  never  to  know.  Yet  the  passing  thought  imparted 
to  Graham  an  even  more  enthralling  interest.  She  felt 
as  she  looked  at  him  that  the  more  she  watched  him, 
thought  about  him,  studied  him,  the  more  completely 
did  he  fill  her  conception  of  all  that  a  man  should  be. 
His  dark  smooth  head,  and  the  deep  brown  of  his  face, 
his  long  eyelashes  and  crisp  black  mustache,  his  straight 
nose  and  small  flat  ears  and  finely  moulded  mouth  and 
chin  all  pleased  her  eyes;  she  felt,  too,  the  character 
in  the  slim  strong  hand  that  was  caressing  hers. 
[  43  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

But  it  was  not  till  the  next  day  that  she  knew  really 
how  much  she  loved  him.  For  the  next  day  there  was 
a  storm,  and  in  spite  of  the  stability  of  the  Catalonia  he 
was  unheroically  seasick.  As  he  lay  beside  her  in  his 
steamer  chair,  with  the  color  gone  from  his  face  and  "The 
Napoleonic  Wars"  unopened  in  his  lap,  she  leaned  to 
him  and  said,  — 

"Poor  dear!  I  feel  as  if  you  were  my  little  sick  boy! 
Oh,  how  I  want  to  do  things  for  you!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   RESCUED 

WITH  Graham  Rappallo,  seasickness  was  an 
acute  but  passing  phase;  after  twenty-four 
hours  of  its  chastening,  he  was  once  more  pacing  the 
deck  with  Rosamond,  feeling  weak  and  spiritualized. 
The  next  day,  feeling  no  longer  weak  and  no  longer 
spiritualized,  he  abandoned  his  bride  after  luncheon  and 
repaired  to  the  smoking-room.  Rosamond  sought  out 
Dorothy  Vasmer  and  was  promenading  the  deck  with 
her  when  Dorothy  said,  "Let's  go  below  and  see  the 
cattle." 

"All  right,"  agreed  Rosamond.  "Perhaps  we  shall 
see  the  man  that  jumped  overboard." 

"And  you  can  tell  him  you're  the  wife  of  the  man 
who  saved  him,"  suggested  Dorothy.  "Won't  it  be 
exciting!" 

They  descended  to  the  cattle  deck  and  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  about  them  uncertainly.  Across  the 
doors  which  led  to  the  cattle  stalls  was  the  sign,  "No 
Admittance";  but  a  feminine  instinct  told  the  two  young 
ladies  that  if  they  only  lingered  long  enough,  some  oblig- 
ing man  would  take  on  himself  the  responsibility  for 
their  disregarding  the  prohibition.  In  similar  instances, 
when  they  had  shown  both  curiosity  and  patience,  such 
a  solution  had  never  failed  them ;  and  they  glanced  hope- 
fully, indeed,  seductively,  at  the  two  young  cattle  men 
I  45  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

who  were  leaning  against  the  rail  on  the  starboard  deck. 
The  young  men  were  at  the  moment  engaged  in  admin- 
istering courage  to  each  other  —  a  fact  of  which  the  two 
young  ladies  were  femininely  aware  and  which  led  them 
to  assume  a  still  more  uncertain,  helpless,  bewildered,  and 
lost  appearance.  Thereupon  the  two  young  men  simul- 
taneously knocked  the  dottle  from  their  pipes  and 
pocketed  them,  and  with  an  air  as  if  they  had  tightened 
up  their  belts,  buttoned  up  their  coats,  and  straightened 
their  neckties,  —  none  of  which  articles  did  they  wear, 
—  they  advanced  to  do  their  chivalrous  devoir. 

"We  were  so  anxious  to  see  the  cattle."  The  pleasant 
look  in  Rosamond's  hazel  eyes  and  the  beguiling  tone 
of  her  voice  came  spontaneously  enough,  for  they  were 
a  wholesome,  pleasant-looking  pair  of  young  men.  "  But 
that  sign  is  so  formidable.  Does  it  really  mean  what  it 
says?" 

"This  is  the  first  chance  we've  had  to  find  out,"  said 
one  of  the  men  recklessly.  "If  you  really  want  to  look 
in,  we  'd  be  glad  to  show  you  round.  But  the  place  is  n't 
much  to  see,  and  it  smells  like  a  cow  barn,  only  more 
so." 

"Oh,  we  don't  mind  that."  It  was  Dorothy  who  spoke 
and  she  engaged  the  other  youth  with  eyes  as  friendly 
as  Rosamond's,  but  gray.  "We  thought  we'd  come 
down  and  look  for  some  excitement." 

"  We  can't  furnish  much,  but  you  're  welcome  to  what 
we  have."  He  threw  the  doors  open  and  stood  aside  for 
them  to  enter. 

They  found  themselves  in  a  very  dimly-lighted  aisle 
between  rows  and  rows  of  cattle  tethered  to  iron  stan- 
l    46    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

chions  and  with  hind  quarters  braced  dismally  to 
withstand  the  abhorrent  reeling  of  this  abominable  and 
strange  universe.  A  mournful  bellowing  proceeded  from 
some  individuals,  the  clank  of  iron  chains  from  others; 
the  closed  portholes  were  unclean;  the  reek  was,  indeed, 
as  the  young  man  had  said,  that  of  a  cow  barn,  only 
more  so.  But  Dorothy  walked  on,  looking  to  right  and 
left  with  interest,  and  Rosamond  followed  her. 

"Do  they  keep  you  very  busy?"  Dorothy  asked  her 
guide. 

"Not  very.  We  have  to  water  them  and  feed  them, 
but  we  have  a  good  deal  of  time  on  our  hands.  The  worst 
of  it  is  the  food  —  which  is  pretty  bad." 

"Is  this  your  first  trip  as  a  cattle  man?" 

"First  and  last.  We've  just  graduated  from  Dart- 
mouth, and  we're  going  over  to  have  a  vacation  in 
Europe." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Dorothy.  Exclusively  a  Back  Bay  product 
she  felt  that,  although  Dartmouth  was  not  Harvard,  it 
was  still  a  college,  and  that  it  was  socially  possible  to  be 
cordial  to  one  of  its  graduates.  Indeed,  even  if  he  had  n't 
been  a  college  graduate  at  all,  if  he  had  been  an  utter 
barbarian,  this  young  man  whom  she  addressed  must 
have  appealed  to  her  as  an  attractive  and  agreeable 
person.  He  was  very  good-looking,  with  his  light  curly 
hair  and  level  blue  eyes,  his  fair  skin  and  tall  trim  fig- 
ure; he  looked  like  an  athlete,  and  he  had  the  air  of  one 
gay,  good-humored,  readily  responsive.  Dorothy  had 
been  quite  taken  at  once  by  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

So  she  told  the  young  man  her  name  and  Rosamond's. 
She  was  rewarded  by  learning  that  he  was  Sidney  Han- 
[  47  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

ford  and  that  his  stocky,  dark-haired  companion  was 
Edward  Cole. 

"You're  not  the  only  cattle  men  on  board,  are  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  there  are  three  others.  They're  over  on  the 
other  side  now  watering  the  stock.  We've  just  finished 
with  ours." 

Dorothy's  curiosity  could  no  longer  be  patient.  "It 
was  n't  one  of  you  that  fell  overboard,  was  it?" 

"No,"  said  Hanford.  "That  was  another  fellow  — 
mighty  good  fellow,  too.  He  did  n't  fall  overboard,  he 
jumped.  He  wanted  to  get  ashore;  he  did  n't  want  to 
make  the  trip,  because  the  friend  who  was  going  with 
him  failed  him." 

"It  was  Mrs.  Rappallo's  husband  who  jumped  after 
him,"  announced  Dorothy.  "Do  point  him  out  to  us, 
if  you  see  him." 

"But  don't  tell  him  who  we  are,"  interposed  Rosa- 
mond, coming  forward.  "I  suppose  he's  sensitive  about 
the  thing,  and  I  should  hate  to  make  him  uncomfortable." 

The  next  moment  at  a  turn  in  the  passage,  she  en- 
countered George  Brandon  face  to  face.  He  had  an 
empty  pail  in  each  hand,  his  shirt  was  open  across  his 
chest,  his  hair  was  unkempt,  and  his  face  unshaven. 
In  the  dim  light  he  and  Rosamond  peered  at  each  other 
for  a  moment. 

"George!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Yes;  you've  trailed  me  to  my  lair."  He  looked  at 
her  with  a  deprecating,  whimsical  smile. 

"Do  tell  me  —  what  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Looking  after  the  cattle." 

L"Yes,  but  how  did  you  come  to  do  such  a  thing?" 
[    48    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

They  drew  away  from  the  others,  who  dropped  back. 

"Another  friend  of  yours  decided  that  he  needed  a 
sea  change  and  some  strenuous  work  and  wanted  com- 
pany. But  evidently  he  thought  better  of  it  overnight; 
anyway,  he  failed  to  appear  before  the  ship  sailed." 

"Then  it  was  you  that —  why  did  n't  Graham  tell 
me?" 

"Because  I  asked  him  not  to."  George  flushed.  "I 
did  n't  want  you  to  know  that  I  had  cut  such  a  pitiable 
and  ridiculous  figure." 

"I'm  sorry  you  felt  that  way.  You  know,  you  could 
never  be  either  pitiable  or  ridiculous  to  me." 

"I  am  to  myself,  anyway.  I  feel  as  if,  though  I'm 
thirty  years  of  age,  I  had  acted  like  a  kid  of  sixteen." 

"I  —  it's  hard  for  the  person  who's  responsible  to 
say  anything  comforting."  She  looked  at  him  with  soft 
eyes,  —  and  he  wished  more  than  ever  that  if  those  were 
the  eyes  of  friendship  he  could  know  what  it  was  to  look 
into  them  when  they  wTere  the  eyes  of  love.  She  was 
thinking  at  the  moment  that  it  was  his  very  juvenility 
which  had  always  made  him  seem  appealing  to  her, 
which  at  times  had  perilously  moved  her,  and  which 
was  a  rather  nice  trait  in  him  even  now.  "Did  n't  you 
want  very  much  to  get  ashore?  " 

"  Very  much.  I  felt  that  I  knew  a  hundred  more  agree- 
able ways  of  killing  time." 

"But  that  is  n't  all  that  you  think  of." 

"It's  too  early  for  me  to  tell  just  what  I  do  think  of. 
I  have  n't  even  decided  whether  to  take  the  first  steamer 
back  or  to  roam  round  Europe  for  a  while.    I  feel  that 
I  have  had  about  enough  of  chasing  butterflies." 
[    49    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"Oh,  George!   Did  you  mean  that  for  me?" 

He  had  not  been  unaware  of  the  innuendo  in  his 
speech,  but  now,  at  her  hurt  glance,  he  hastened  to  dis- 
claim it. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "you  were  the  butterfly  that  I 
most  wanted  to  add  to  my  collection.  But  now  that  it 's 
impossible,  collecting  others  does  n't  any  longer  interest 
me  so  much.  Nothing  interests  me  so  much." 

"You  have  a  profession." 

"How  I  wish  I  had  devoted  myself  to  it!  To  be  a 
doctor  whom  people  wanted  might  have  compensated 
me  a  little  for  not  being  the  man  whom  the  girl  wanted ! " 

"You  don't  feel  bitterly  towards  me,  do  you,  George?  " 

"  No,  not  towards  you,  you  dear  thing.  I  feel  bitterly 
towards  myself  —  for  having  been  so  inconsequent  and 
drifting.  If  only,  when  this  happened,  I'd  had  some 
routine  to  occupy  me,  some  definite  work  to  hug  a  little 
closer  to  my  bosom,  I  should  n't  then  be  holding  my  poor 
heart  quite  so  tenderly." 

"You  don't  look  as  if  that  was  your  occupation," 
she  said,  with  a  smile.  "Anyway,  George,  it's  a  nice 
heart,  and  some  day  some  nice  girl  will  hold  it  tenderly 
for  you." 

"I  doubt  it,"  replied  George.  "Girls  don't  do  that  sort 
of  thing  without  encouragement.  No,  I  shall  frivol  round 
Europe  for  a  while,  since  I'm  necessarily  bound  there; 
and  then  I  shall  go  back  home  and  frivol  round  Boston 
for  a  while,  and  then  I  shall  be  ready,  I  suppose,  to  go 
after  more  butterflies." 

"I  see;  you  do  reproach  me.  You  feel  that  I  did  n't 
play  fair.  But  when  a  girl  really  falls  in  love,  George, 
[  50  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

the  fairest  thing  she  can  do  is  to  go  right  ahead.  There 
can  be  no  chance  then  for  anybody  else  —  no  matter 
how  kind  and  friendly  her  feeling  for  others  may  be." 

"I  realize  all  that.  No,  I  wasn't  reproaching  you. 
I  am  merely  disgusted  with  myself  for  getting  into  my 
present  situation." 

"It  is  rather  nasty,"  Rosamond  admitted,  looking 
about  her.  "But  you  can  easily  transfer  your  quarters 
to  the  cabin.  There  is  plenty  of  room.  Do,  please." 

"It's  very  tempting,"  said  George.  "But  I  prefer  to 
fight  with  the  beasts  below  here  —  at  Ephesus.  Go  back 
to  the  cabin,  Rosamond,  and  don't  come  down  again." 

She  looked  at  him  with  surprise  and  question  in  her 
eyes.  "Why,  don't  you  want  to  see  me  again,  George 
—  when  we're  crossing  on  the  same  boat?" 

"No." 

"But,  George!"  she  said  appealingly,  after  a  moment 
of  silence. 

"  Good  heavens,  Rosamond ! "   He  turned  away. 

Rosamond  flushed,  looked  at  him  with  hurt  and  angry 
eyes,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "You  are  very  unkind." 

She  turned  and  walked  back  to  Dorothy;  George, 
leaning  against  the  rail,  did  not  even  follow  her  with  his 
glance. 

"Well,  Dorothy,"  she  said,  "it's  all  very  interesting, 
is  n't  it?  I  think  I  '11  go  up  to  my  stateroom  now.  — 
Thanks,  ever  so  much,  for  showing  us  round." 

The  two  young  men  expressed  their  pleasure.  Dorothy 

knew  that  George  Brandon  had  been  one  of  Rosamond's 

suitors,  and  gave  her  a  look,  interested  and  a  little  scared; 

she  saw  that  Rosamond  was  striving  to  conceal  emotion. 

I    51    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

On  her  way  to  her  cabin,  Rosamond  passed  the  open 
door  of  the  smoking-room  and  glancing  in  saw  her  hus- 
band playing  cards,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  a  glass  on 
the  table  before  him.  The  sight  incensed  her. 

Alone  in  her  stateroom  she  closed  the  door,  sat  down 
upon  the  couch,  and  gave  herself  up  to  unhappiness. 
She  thought  of  all  those  sweet  and  tender  and  passionate 
visits  from  George  Brandon  in  the  past.  She  wondered 
how  and  why  she  had  held  out  against  him.  She  felt 
she  could  give  her  soul  for  one  more  tremulous  woo- 
ing appeal  from  him.  She  looked  round  the  little  cabin 
and  saw  the  traces  of  her  husband  with  anger  and  revolt. 
His  toothbrush  and  shaving-brush,  visible  on  the  shelf 
over  the  washstand,  revolted  her.  Into  what  abomin- 
able intimacy  had  she  suddenly  been  transported!  She 
thought  of  the  day  when  George  had  made  a  shy  and 
desperate  effort  to  win  her  by  putting  an  arm  about  her 
and  giving  her  a  kiss;  the  indignation  she  had  felt  seemed 
now  too  absurd. 

"The  door  opened  and  her  husband  entered.  "Why  do 
you  come  in  without  knocking?"  she  asked.  "You  take 
me  for  granted  already." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry."  He  spoke  contritely;  he  sat  down 
by  her  side  and  put  his  arm  round  her. 

"Don't  do  that."  She  drew  away  from  him.  "I  won- 
der if  I  love  you.  Why  did  I  marry  you!" 

He  looked  at  her,  he  touched  her  hand  entreatingly, 
but  she  withdrew  it  and  sat  with  averted  face. 

"What  have  I  done,  dearest?"  he  asked.  "Is  it  just 
that  I  did  n't  knock?  I  '11  be  careful  in  future.  But  there 
must  be  more  than  that." 

[    52    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"I've  just  been  seeing  George  Brandon.  You  did  n't 
tell  me  it  was  hie.  —  I  —  he  really  loves  me.  And  I  Ve 
treated  him  so  badly!" 

"I  can't  believe  that.  He  went  away,  he  never  wrote 
to  you,  —  and  you  had  promised  him  nothing." 

"Oh,  he  wanted  to  have  me  miss  him;  I  felt  it,  I  knew 
that  was  it.  And  I  had  always  let  him  think  there  was 
hope.  I  had  always  felt  that  some  time  I  would  marry 
him.  WThy  did  you  come  in  and  spoil  it?  " 

"For  only  one  reason,  of  course."  She  again  tried  to 
draw  away  from  him,  tried  to  push  him  away,  but  he 
calmly  took  possession  of  her,  held  her  arms  close  to  her 
sides  in  his  embrace,  and  talked  soothingly  in  her  ear. 
"Dear  little  girl,  do  you  think  George  Brandon  is  the 
only  one  who  loves  you?" 

She  was  silent  a  moment.  "I  think  you  love  me  a 
little,  but  not  the  way  George  Brandon  does;  not  the 
way  I  like  to  be  loved.  And  oh,  if  you  knew  how  I 
always  looked  forward  to  his  coming,  how  happy  I  al- 
ways was  when  he  was  with  me!  I  must  have  been  mad 
to  marry  you  —  mad  and  wicked ! " 

"You  were  neither  mad  nor  wicked,"  said  her  hus- 
band. "Haven't  you  looked  forward  —  a  little  —  to 
seeing  me?  Have  n't  you  been  happy  —  a  little  —  with 
me?  Don't  think  only  of  the  times  with  Brandon.  Think 
of  those  with  me." 

"I  was  fascinated  by  you,  I  think;  and  perhaps  I  fas- 
cinated you.  But  we  never  loved  each  other;  we  never 
understood  each  other." 

"If  we  don't  now,  we  will  learn.  Anyway,  I  love  you. 
That  you  must  know." 

[     53     ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"  I  'm  not  sure.  Already  you  leave  me  for  the  smoking- 
room.  You  sit  more  interested  in  your '  Napoleonic  Wars' 
than  in  me.  You  don't  try  to  give  me  a  good  time.  You 
talk  to  me  about  campaigns  and  battles  and  killing  people 
—  and  I  think  that  war  is  nothing  but  murder.  Oh,  I 
was  mad  to  marry  you  —  mad." 

He  held  her  more  tightly  and  spoke  softly  in  her  ear. 
"I  suppose  I  had  Othello's  example  in  mind.  I  loved 
you,  I  wanted  you  to  love  me  —  and  Desdemona,  you 
know,  loved  Othello  for  the  dangers  he  had  passed." 

"Yes,  that's  why  I  first  fancied  I  loved  you,"  she  said. 
She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments;  then,  to  his  infinite 
relief,  she  turned  her  eyes  towards  him.  They  were  full 
of  questioning  and  uncertainty  and  a  desire  to  be  given 
assurance  and  support.  "Oh,  Graham,  I  thought  I 
loved  you.  But  seeing  George  Brandon  has  upset  me 
so !  I  think  I  love  each  of  you  —  in  different  ways  — 
and  it  seemed  as  if  I  loved  George  more  in  the  right 
way!" 

"I  don't  believe  it.  Why,  if  you  had  married  George 
and  then  had  suddenly  come  upon  me,  in  just  such  cir- 
cumstances, would  n't  you  have  been  upset,  too?  " 

"Yes,  perhaps,  but  not  so  much." 

"Oh,  you  can't  tell  about  that.  I  love  you,  anyway, 
Rosamond,  more  than  George  Brandon  does;  I  know 
I  do,  because  no  man  could  love  you  more.  And  there 's 
just  one  thing  I'm  sure  of  about  women;  a  woman  in 
time  comes  to  love  that  man  most  who,  as  time  shows, 
loves  her  most.  So  if  you  don't  love  me  now  with  all 
your  heart,  I  'm  still  not  discouraged.  Only  say  you  love 
me  a  little." 

[    54    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

She  hesitated,  and  then  in  a  small,  obedient  voice 
said,  "Yes,  I  love  you  a  little." 

"And  now  kiss  me." 

"Just  a  little  kiss." 

She  put  up  her  lips,  and  suddenly  he  was  crushing 
her  in  his  embrace  and  kissing  her  with  a  violence  which, 
if  kisses  alone  could  kindle  love,  must  have  started  a 
conflagration. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PROGRESS  OF  A  HONEYMOON 

IN  less  than  three  months  Graham  Rappallo  and  his 
wife  each  recognized,  secretly,  that  in  certain  re- 
spects their  marriage  was  an  unsatisfactory  one.  Re- 
cognizing this  individually,  each  was,  first  of  all,  anxious 
to  prevent  the  other  from  realizing  it,  and  next  deter- 
mined not  to  let  anybody  else  ever  suspect  it.  Doubtless 
through  some  such  steadfast  resolution  many  marriages 
that  at  first  pass  for  happy  achieve  happiness  in  the  end. 
Rosamond's  pleasure  was  in  life;  Graham's  pleasure 
was  in  work.  Such  a  difference  need  not  inevitably 
drive  husband  and  wife  apart;  it  may  even  sometimes 
enable  them  to  supplement  and  stimulate  each  other. 
But  for  two  persons  of  such  contrasting  traits  a  long 
honeymoon  is  liable  to  work  mischief,  and  Graham  and 
Rosamond  had  embarked  upon  a  too  extensive  honey- 
moon. They  had  plotted  it  all  out  carefully,  or  rather 
Rosamond  had  done  most  of  the  planning,  for  she  was 
far  more  familiar  with  Europe  than  Graham  was,  and 
she  promised  herself  and  him  a  special  delight  in  show- 
ing him  the  places  that  she  loved  and  with  which  she 
had  associations.  London  to  begin  with;  they  could  be 
there  for  the  last  two  weeks  of  the  "season";  two  weeks 
then  of  loitering  through  Warwickshire  and  down  the 
Valley  of  the  Wye;  next,  to  Trouville  for  a  glimpse  of 
the  summer  gayeties  of  the  gayest  people  in  the  world; 
[  56  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

a  month  in  Switzerland  —  Lucerne,  St.  Moritz,  and 
Interlaken;  and  then  Venice,  of  course,  —  a  honeymoon 
in  Europe  that  did  not  include  Venice  was  unthinkable. 
From  Venice  to  Vienna,  and  then  to  Paris,  where  they 
could  have  nearly  a  month  before  sailing  for  home. 

Graham's  first  intention  had  been  to  absent  himself 
from  his  office  and  his  military  duties  —  for  he  was  Cap- 
tain of  the  Troop,  which  was  due  to  take  part  in  the 
autumn  maneuvers  of  the  militia — for  six  weeks.  But 
Rosamond  so  plainly  regarded  that  period  as  inadequate 
and  in  making  her  plans  showed  so  clearly  the  necessity 
of  their  being  gone  for  three  or  four  months  that  he  gave 
a  reckless  acquiescence.  "Don't  let  your  sense  of  duty 
cut  short  the  best  time  that  I  shall  ever  have  in'  all  my 
life,"  she  pleaded.  It  seemed  to  him  so  sweet  that  she 
should  think  this,  and  not  only  think  it  but  say  it,  that 
he  added  two  extra  weeks  to  the  total  amount  that  she 
asked  for. 

Yet  even  in  those  transports  of  triumphant  love,  he 
had  felt  the  disappointment  that  should  never  be  the 
after-fruit  of  whole-hearted  sacrifice.  He  had  felt  it  in 
relinquishing  to  his  partner  the  preparation  of  the  most 
interesting  and  important  law  case  that  had  yet  come 
into  his  hands.  Even  more  keenly  did  he  feel  it  in  ten- 
dering his  resignation  as  Captain  of  the  Troop.  It  was 
a  particular  gratification  to  him  that  the  Troop  declined 
to  accept  it.  Still,  he  should  miss  the  maneuvers;  and  he 
was  much  disturbed  to  find  himself  wishing  that  he  could 
get  away  from  his  honeymoon  to  go  to  them. 

For  a  month  he  endured  the  exactions  of  his  vaca- 
tion pretty  well.  He  even  found  pleasure  in  doing 
[  57  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

things  that  in  the  society  of  any  one  else  would  have 
bored  him  unspeakably.  To  spend  a  perfectly  good 
morning  driving  aimlessly  in  the  park,  or  passing  at  a 
snail's  pace  through  a  picture  gallery,  or  viewing  relics 
of  early  architecture  seemed  to  him  mere  dawdling;  and 
he  was  impatient  of  those  who  dawdled  and  of  those  who 
puttered.  In  going  abroad,  he  maintained,  each  man 
should  seek  the  things  that  interested  him;  he  himself 
could  find  enough  to  study  in  the  law  courts  and  the 
battlefields.  Rosamond  tried  to  convince  him  that 
he  could  share  her  interest  with  some  pleasure  and 
profit  to  himself,  and  he  tried  to  admit  that  he  was 
persuaded.  If  the  things  at  which  she  looked  with 
such  incomprehensibly  eager  and  delighted  eyes  were 
stupid  to  him,  her  companionship  was  at  least  not 
stupid.  He  did  not  tire  of  being  with  her.  He  felt 
proud  of  her,  and  glad  when  he  noticed  with  how  much 
more  vivid  interest  the  eyes  of  sight-seers  rested  on  her 
than  on  those  classic  attractions  that  were  starred  in 
their  Baedekers. 

It  was  not  until  they  crossed  over  to  the  Continent 
that  the  honeymoon  became  a  little  cloying.  They 
knew  nobody  at  Trouville;  in  England  they  had  been 
meeting  many  friends,  and  even  when  they  were  in 
places  where  they  knew  no  one,  they  had  never  felt  that 
they  were  intruders.  In  Trouville  Graham  very  soon 
felt  this.  He  did  not  understand  these  people;  the 
place  very  clearly  belonged  to  them,  not  to  him;  in  fact, 
he  soon  decided  that  he  would  not  wish  to  have  any 
share  in  it.  He  was  incurably  provincial;  the  Latin 
races,  although  they  had  furnished  him  with  some  mili- 
[  58  j 


I 

THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

tary  heroes,  were  decadent  and  inferior.  These  wealthy 
and  absurd  Parisians  at  Trouville  he  suspected  of  de- 
voting their  lives  to  intrigue  and  immorality.  Their 
idle  luxury  was  reprehensible  beyond  any  to  be  found 
at  an  American  summer  resort.  Oddly  enough,  the 
thing  that  prejudiced  him  most  was  an  episode  that 
Rosamond  thought  charming  in  its  simplicity.  They 
were  sitting  on  the  beach  one  morning;  children  were 
playing  near  them;  there  were  little  parties  of  vivacious 
young  women  and  even  more  vivacious  middle-aged 
men  strolling  by.  One  of  these  parties  sat  down  a  few 
yards  away.  There  were  two  young  women,  two  black- 
bearded,  dandified  men;  they  all  talked  with  a  shrill, 
rapid  gayety,  the  women  gesticulating  prettily,  the 
men  with  eagerness. 

"There  are  few  things  that  it 's  necessary  to  make  such 
a  fuss  about,"  Graham  remarked  to  his  wife.  "That's 
what  I  object  to  in  these  people  —  their  theatricality. 
Their  enthusiasm  is  always  under  forced  draught." 

"I  like  it,"  said  Rosamond.  "I  don't  like  stodgy 
people." 

That  morning  for  the  first  time  she  was  acknowledg- 
ing to  herself  that  she  would  welcome  a  little  temporary 
relief  .from  her  husband's  society.  Something  about  him 
was  jarring  to  her  nerves. 

One  of  the  black-bearded  men  suddenly  began  to 
take  off  his  shoes.  The  young  women  clapped  their 
hands  joyfully,  the  other  man  threw  out  his  palms  and 
seemed  to  be  pronouncing  a  facetious  oration  over  his 
friend.  Off  came  the  other  shoe,  off  came  both  socks; 
chattering  exuberantly  in  response  to  the  rallying  cries 
[  59  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

of  his  companions,  the  sportive  gentleman  rolled  his 
trousers  up  above  his  knees,  exposing  a  fragile  white 
ankle  and  a  length  of  slender  white  calf;  then  he  thrust 
his  socks  into  his  shoes,  tied  the  shoes  together  by  their 
lacings,  and  slung  them  across  his  shoulders.  Taking  up 
his  walking-stick,  he  rose  and  made  his  leisurely  way 
down  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  where  he  strolled  along, 
letting  the  wavelets  ripple  up  over  his  ankles.  His 
friends  talked  vivaciously  among  themselves  and  gave 
him  no  further  notice;  he  attracted  no  special  attention 
from  the  other  people  on  the  beach,  and  he  did  not  seem 
to  desire  it;  he  was  apparently  taking  the  simple  pleas- 
ure of  a  child  in  wading.  But  Graham  glowered  at  him 
and  muttered  an  unfavorable  opinion  of  the  French- 
man's "antics." 

"I  don't  think  he  has  any  comic  intention,"  said 
Rosamond.  "  He's  just  being  perfectly  natural." 

"I'm  afraid  I  shall  never  appreciate  the  perfect  na- 
turalness of  the  French,"  replied  Graham. 

"I  think  it  rather  sweet  of  him  to  take  such  a  childish 
pleasure  in  dabbling  his  toes,"  Rosamond  said. 

"I  would  think  better  of  him  if  he  went  in  swimming 
like  a  man,"  Graham  answered. 

Rosamond  made  no  other  comment;  Graham,  feeling 
that  he  had  somehow  displeased  her,  was  silent.  They 
watched  the  innocent  object  of  their  discussion;  he 
picked  his  way  along  in  the  curling  ripples,  prodding  his 
stick  in  the  sand  and  turning  over  shells,  which  he 
paused  now  and  then  to  examine  with  acute  interest; 
some  bathers  were  springing  up  and  down  farther  out 
in  the  water,  and  he  stopped  and  gazed  at  them  for  a 
I  60  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

while;  he  even  waded  out  until  his  slim  shanks  were 
quite  immersed.  At  last  he  sat  down  by  the  edge  of  the 
water,  used  his  pocket  handkerchief  as  a  towel,  and  put 
on  his  shoes.  Then  he  returned  briskly  to  his  party  and 
began  to  urge  upon  them  with  enthusiasm  the  desir- 
ability of  following  his  example. 

"I  think,"  Rosamond  said  suddenly,  "we  will  leave 
Trouville  to-morrow,  and  go  up  to  Brussels.  Then  you 
can  inspect  the  field  of  Waterloo." 

"But  your  friend,  the  Countess  of  Cassieres,  who  is 
arriving  day  after  to-morrow!"  exclaimed  Graham. 
"You  know  you're  engaged  to  dine  with  her  on  Satur- 
day. Oh,  no,  we  can't  leave  to-morrow." 

"I  will  cancel  the  engagement,"  said  Rosamond.  "I 
have  decided  that  you  would  n't  like  the  Countess;  and 
probably  the  Countess  would  not  like  you.  She  and  I 
can  renew  our  friendship  some  time  when  I  come  to 
France  alone." 

Graham  caught  her  hand.  "Rosamond,"  he  cried, 
anxiously,  "don't  say  things  like  that." 

She  rose.  "We  have  stayed  in  Trouville  long  enough. 
A  change  of  scene  will  be  good  for  us.  Let  us  leave  this 
afternoon." 

He  walked  with  her  to  the  hotel,  protesting.  "I  know 
you  like  it  here;  I  know  you  want  to  stay  and  see  your 
friend." 

"No,  I'm  bored  with  the  place.  We'll  go  to  Brussels 
—  and  you  can  show  me  battlefields." 

She  said  it  pleasantly  —  even  in  the  tone  of  expec- 
tant happiness.  Graham  felt  subdued  and  ashamed. 

They  finished  their  packing  that  morning;  at  lunch- 
[  61  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

eon  Rosamond  met  Graham's  solicitous  efforts  at  con- 
versation with  cheerful  eyes  and  a  smile.  She  did  not 
have  much  to  say  herself,  but  Graham  felt  that  he  was 
no  longer  in  disfavor.  His  spirits  brightened;  he  re- 
solved to  be  more  discreet  in  future  and  more  tolerant, 
he  would  try  not  to  trample  on  her  particular  prejudices 
and  prepossessions.  But  he  was  glad  to  be  leaving  Trou- 
ville.  After  all,  he  had  so  far  done  everything  that  his 
wife  wanted  to  do,  gone  just  where  she  wanted  to  go;  it 
was  proper  now  that  for  a  short  time  his  own  tastes  and 
desires  should  be  consulted. 

They  had  the  compartment  in  the  train  to  themselves. 
Rosamond  sat  during  most  of  the  trip  looking  out  of 
the  window.  Graham  was  suddenly  shocked  out  of 
his  soothed  complacency  by  seeing  a  tear  start  from 
her  eye.  She  brushed  it  away  with  her  handkerchief. 
Graham  slipped  his  arm  round  her  and  said  in  distress, 
"You're  not  crying,  Rosamond?  Tell  me,  dear,  what 
have  I  done?" 

But  she  could  tell  him  nothing.  "I  don't  know  why 
I'm  crying,  Graham.  I'm  rather  unhappy.  Just  let 
me  cry." 

He  besought  her,  he  tried  to  comfort  her,  but  she 
would  not  tell  him  why  she  wept.  Her  tears  flowed  for 
a  while,  and  even  after  they  had  ceased,  Graham  felt 
that  it  was  little  better,  for  she  sat  silent  and  looked 
away  from  him  out  of  the  window,  in  spite  of  all  his  en- 
treaties and  appeals. 

She  was  thinking  how  unkind  he  had  been  —  and  ex- 
cusing him  in  the  same  breath.  Of  course  he  had  not 
guessed  how  eagerly  she  had  looked  forward  to  seeing 
I  62  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

the  Countess,  who  had  been  one  of  her  dearest  school 
friends.  After  having  been  for  so  long  in  such  uninter- 
rupted and  novel  intimacy  with  a  man,  Rosamond  had 
found  herself  thirsting  for  the  sight  of  a  girl  friend,  re- 
joicing eagerly  at  the  prospect  of  the  Countess's  arrival. 
Moreover,  she  could  not  help  imagining  how  much 
happier  she  might  have  been  in  a  place  like  Trouville 
with  George  Brandon. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

VENICE 

FREQUENT  encounters  with  pleasant  people  may 
make  even  the  most  wearisome  honeymoon  pass 
pleasantly;  at  least  this  was  the  uncommunicated 
thought  of  both  Rosamond  and  Graham  after  they  had 
been  two  weeks  in  Switzerland.  Rosamond  had  found 
the  study  of  battlefields  as  unenlivening  as  Graham  had 
found  the  promenade  at  Trouville.  She  felt  that  this 
need  not  have  been  the  case,  that  properly  guided  and 
instructed  she  could  have  taken  almost  as  intelligent 
an  interest  in  them  as  did  her  husband;  but  either  he 
pursued  his  studies  and  surveys  in  the  absorbed  inten- 
sity of  silence  or  he  overpowered  her  with  details.  For 
all  his  copiousness,  she  brought  away  from  the  two 
days'  inspection  of  the  field  of  Waterloo  nothing  more 
vivid  or  explanatory  than  the  picture  that  Victor  Hugo 
had  fastened  in  her  mind  of  the  French  cavalry  piling 
up  in  the  sunken  road  at  Ohain. 

In  Switzerland  Rosamond  played  tennis,  made  ex- 
cursions on  foot  or  on  horseback,  rose  to  look  at  sunrises, 
loitered  in  little  shops,  read  and  talked  on  hotel  veran- 
das, dug  out  bits  of  local  history,  and  collected  various 
contemporary  impressions.  She  never  went  far  afield 
to  gaze  at  grandeur.  A  charming  view  from  her  window 
with  which  she  might  grow  familiar  was  more  to  her 
than  the  sublime  spectacles  that  form  episodes  for  the 
[  64  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

tourists.  Graham,  on  the  other  hand,  climbed  moun- 
tains. In  their  respective  pursuits,  they  found  con- 
genial companions;  they  were  not  often  companions  for 
each  other.  Dutifully  every  evening  at  dinner  each 
rehearsed  to  the  other  the  gleanings  of  the  day;  the 
latter  courses  of  the  table  d'hote  were  often  eaten  in 
silence.  Sometimes  in  these  arid  silences  Rosamond 
wondered  if  this  conscientious,  carefully  affectionate, 
strangely  tedious  mate  of  hers  had  really  been  the  gal- 
lant cavalier  of  her  romance,  the  daring  soldier,  the 
hero  who  had  dived  to  the  rescue  — !  The  thought  of 
that  act  invariably  gave  her  lips  a  bitter  twist;  she 
dwelt  with  mockery  on  the  hero  worship  that  it  had 
occasioned.  The  essential  bravery  of  her  husband's  act 
was  obscured  for  her  in  the  belated  revelations  of  the 
circumstances,  in  the  exhibition  of  two  crestfallen  faces 
—  of  which  one  was  George  Brandon's.  To  humiliate 
one  who  had  already  been  defeated  and  who  might  have 
had  the  victory  —  Rosamond  thinking  of  it  felt  a  soft- 
ness that  was  more  than  pity  for  George.  And  then, 
thus  harsh  one  moment  towards  her  husband,  she  soft- 
ened towards  him  the  next;  a  native  loyalty  and  justice 
and  affection  righted  her  capsizing  thoughts.  Often  he 
would  be  no  less  bewildered  than  enraptured  by  warmth 
blooming  suddenly  out  of  stony  coldness,  her  soft  arms 
round  his  neck,  her  voice  penitent  and  soothing  as  it 
murmured,  "I  love  you,  Graham;  oh,  I  love  you,  dear." 
Then  from  his  own  heart  thestored-up  tenderness  would 
be  released;  holding  her  close  he  would  protest  his  love 
with  kisses;  and  when  at  last  they  drew  apart,  it  would 
be  to  look  at  each  other  smiling  and  starry-eyed.  Rosa- 
[  65  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

mond  never  looked  so  radiant  or  so  charming  as  in  the 
flush  after  one  of  these  confessions;  Graham  never 
seemed  so  handsome  or  so  nobly  exultant  as  when  the 
kisses  were  still  fresh  upon  his  lips.  Each  realized  this 
fact  about  the  other;  the  understanding  drew  their 
hearts  together.  Graham  once  said  in  one  of  these  mo- 
ments, "Nobody  ever  sees  you  when  you  look  like  that 
but  me,  Rosamond."  And  Rosamond  answered,  "You 
never  did  look  like  that  for  any  one  but  me,  did  you, 
Graham?" 

Capricious  outbursts  of  affection  succeeded  by  spasms 
of  revolt  or  periods  of  almost  forgetful  indifference  — 
this  was  their  honeymoon.  They  passed  from  place  to 
place;  and  in  each  place  where  they  stopped,  they  passed 
through  all  the  varying  temperamental  vicissitudes; 
storm  and  cloud  and  fog  and  sunshine  moved  with  them 
and  had  each  one  its  season.  So  at  last  they  came  to 
Venice,  which  to  Rosamond  should  have  meant  the  very 
climax  of  delight.  Indeed,  she  and  Graham  were  never 
closer  to  each  other  than  when  they  arrived  at  midnight 
and  by  moonlight,  and  were  rowed  through  the  narrow 
waterways  under  the  arched  bridges  and  between  the 
dark  sepulchral  palaces,  out  suddenly  into  the  glory  of 
the  shining  Grand  Canal.  They  sat  hand  in  hand.  "Oh, 
yes,"  murmured  Graham.  "This  is  the  best  of  all." 
Rosamond  pressed  his  hand  ecstatically.  "Yes,"  she 
said.  "Nothing  ever  was  so  perfect  as  this.  Oh,  I  knew 
you  must  feel  so  about  it,  Graham." 

No,  he  could  not  be  insensible  to  the  picturesqueness, 
the  never-failing  freshness,  the  ever-present  antiquity, 
the  rich  romance  of  Venice.  It  beguiled  him  for  a  day 
[  66  } 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

or  two  as  a  fairy  tale  beguiles  a  child.  Standing  on  the 
Riva  delli  Schiavoni  he  expressed  to  Rosamond  the  wish 
that  he  might  be  carried  back  for  just  one  day  to  the 
time  when  Venice  was  the  mistress  of  the  seas.  "Just 
to  see  a  victorious  fleet  come  in  here  and  be  welcomed 
by  the  doges  and  populace  —  the  color  and  the  splendor 
of  it!"  he  sighed.  "Wouldn't  you  give  something  to 
have  been  there  on  such  a  day?" 

"You  wouldn't  wish  yourself  back  five  hundred 
years  and  leave  me  waiting  here,  would  you?"  Rosa- 
mond asked  jealously. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  would,  I  should  be  so  interesting  when  I 
returned.  I  should  never  bore  you  any  more." 

"You  don't  often  bore  me.  When  you  do,  it's  just 
because  I  'm  selfish  and  don't  like  to  see  you  more  inter- 
ested in  other  things  than  me." 

"Oh,  but  you're  always  the  one  great  big  thing!"  he 
cried. 

"  Am  I?  "  Her  eyes  brightened  believingly.  "  Oh,  I  'm 
so  glad  you  think  so.  Shall  we  take  a  gondola  over  to 
the  Lido?  You'll  find  that  almost  as  amusing  as  going 
back  five  hundred  years." 

Stout  German  ladies  in  striped  bathing-suits  and 
hats  shaped  somewhat  like  those  of  the  Pilgrim  fathers, 
but  made  of  straw,  promenaded  barefoot  on  the  beach. 
Some  of  them  smoked  cigarettes  and  were  accompanied 
by  scantily  attired  gentlemen  with  whom  they  seemed 
to  be  conversing  with  the  utmost  dignity.  Family  par- 
ties lay  about  on  the  sand,  taking  sunbaths,  the  heads 
of  swimmers  bobbed  on  the  blue  Adriatic;  and  Rosa- 
mond and  Graham  sat  in  the  pavilion  and  looked  on 
1  67  ] 


with  the  cheerful  amusement  of  two  happy  persons  who 
are  feeling  that  the  world  is  created  for  delight. 

That  was  the  feeling  that  Venice  had  always  inspired 
in  Rosamond.  Graham  shared  it  for  two  days.  At 
night  when  they  went  out  upon  the  Grand  Canal  and 
heard  the  singing  from  the  illuminated  floats,  Graham 
felt  the  same  romantic  tenderness  that  the  opening  bars 
of  the  march  from  "Lohengrin"  had  roused  in  him  at 
his  wedding.  It  did  not  matter  that  the  piano  was  out 
of  tune  and  that  the  voices  of  the  singers  were  not  espe- 
cially melodious;  the  spirit  of  the  melodies,  the  moon- 
light streaming  across  the  water  and  beating  on  the 
noble  palaces  beyond,  the  hooded  gondolas  hovering 
close,  each  one  a  craft  with  a  mysterious  past  and  a 
romantic  present,  and  most  of  all  this  girl  beside  him, 
whose  hand  lay  warm  within  his  own  —  all  quickened 
Graham's  imagination  —  and  it  is  imagination  that 
gives  life  to  love. 

But  in  Venice  a  man  whose  impulses  are  all  towards 
activity  soon  grows  restless.  When  the  novelty  had 
worn  off  and  only  the  queerness  remained,  when  the 
labyrinthine  byways  had  ceased  to  be  alluring  and  had 
become  irritating,  and  particularly  when  the  first  en- 
chanted wonder  began  to  be  expelled  by  the  absorption 
of  enlightening  information,  Graham  revolted  against 
the  tyranny  of  the  place.  He  longed  for  the  open  coun- 
try and  a  horse  to  ride.  His  thoughts  reverted  to  the 
battlefields  of  Lombardy  past  which  the  train  had 
borne  him.  He  pursued  the  study  of  Titian  and  Tin- 
toretto with  docility,  but  it  was  only  the  long  swims  in 
the  afternoon  at  the  Lido  that  made  the  second  week 
[  68  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

in  Venice  tolerable  to  him.  Rosamond  was  still  eager 
and  enraptured.  The  weather  was  perfect,  the  little 
children  along  the  canals  pleased  her  eye  and  touched 
her  heart,  the  galleries  and  churches  had  not  lost  their 
charm;  and  all  the  pleasant  objects  and  experiences 
were  made  twice  dear  to  her  by  her  husband's  presence. 
She  felt  that  not  before  in  all  their  honeymoon  had  they 
shared  a  pleasure  so  completely;  she  dwelt  with  such 
caressing  satisfaction  on  his  enthusiasm  during  the  first 
few  days  that  his  subsequent  more  quiet  acceptance  of 
her  enthusiasm  had  not  disappointed  her. 

One  evening  as  they  sat  at  dinner  in  the  hotel,  he  said 
to  her,  "Let's  see;  you  were  planning  to  stop  here  a 
week  longer,  were  n't  you,  Rosamond?" 

"Why,  yes.  Are  you  tired  of  it,  Graham?" 

Her  expression  was  so  surprised  and  hurt  that  he  had 
not  the  courage  to  tell  her  the  truth.  "Oh,  no;  it's  the 
most  delightful  place  I've  ever  been  in.  But  I  will 
admit  I  'm  beginning  to  pine  for  a  little  run  in  the  coun- 
try. And  there  are  so  many  good  battlefields  within 
easy  reach.  But  I  certainly  don't  want  to  cut  short 
your  stay  in  Venice,  not  by  a  single  hour." 

"You  don't  understand,"  she  said  wistfully.  "I  can't 
really  enjoy  anything  now,  unless  you  enjoy  it  too." 

That  confession  of  her  dependence  touched  him. 
"Dearest,"  he  declared,  "I've  never  enjoyed  anything 
so  much  as  being  here  with  you.  We  won't  cut  it  short 
at  all.  That  was  just  a  passing  notion  —  you  know  my 
mania  for  battlefields  makes  me  foolish  at  times." 

She  responded  to  this  with  a  docile  smile,  and  he  be- 
stirred himself  to  convince  her  of  the  sincerity  of  his  in- 
l  69  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

terest.  They  had  n't  yet  been  over  to  the  Giudecca  or 
to  San  Giorgio,  and  of  course  they  must  visit  the  glass 
factories;  there  were  any  number  of  things  that  he 
wanted  to  do.  Was  there,  by  the  way,  any  one  event 
that  marked  the  passing  of  the  power  of  Venice  on  the 
seas?  She  answered  him  cheerfully,  but  on  her  brow 
and  in  her  eyes  there  was  the  abstracted  look  of  the  wife 
who  is  not  deceived. 

It  rested  there  frequently  during  the  next  two  days 
and  subdued  his  sprightliness.  WTiat  she  had  said  to 
Graham  proved  disquietingly  true;  as  soon  as  she  be- 
came aware  of  his  restlessness,  her  own  capacity  for 
extracting  pleasure  from  her  surroundings  vanished. 
Realizing  this,  she  felt  alarm  at  the  surrender  of  her 
personality  that  she  had  made.  Henceforward  for  her 
happiness  she  must  depend  on  her  husband,  his  patience 
and  love.  She  had  never  really  believed  that  she  should 
find  herself  so  unreservedly  in  his  hands.  "Graham," 
she  said  on  the  third  day,  "I  believe  that  we've  ex- 
hausted Venice;  anyway,  I  feel  that  it  would  be  pleasant 
to  make  a  change.  What  are  the  places  that  you  wanted 
to  see?" 

So  it  happened  that  they  were  a  week  on  their  way  up 
to  Paris.  They  visited  the  battlefields  of  Marengo  and 
Lodi. ' 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  SOUND  OF  TRUMPETS  FROM  AFAR 

IN  a  palm-shaded  corner  of  the  hotel  courtyard, 
Mrs.  Vasmer  was  scanning  the  Paris  edition  of  the 
New  York  "Herald";  her  daughter  Dorothy  sat  by  her 
side  idly  waiting  for  her  to  finish  and  hand  over  that 
chatty  publication.  It  was  the  half -hour  after  break- 
fast, when  Mrs.  Vasmer  always  succumbed  to  inertia 
before  gathering  her  forces  for  the  day,  and  when  Doro- 
thy was  most  possessed  with  the  spirit  of  impatient 
energy.  This  morning  she  was  more  than  usually  eager, 
for  her  mother  had  promised  to  come  with  her  and  view 
the  heavenly  black  and  old-rose  ball  gown  which  had  so 
taken  her  fancy  the  day  before  at  Paquin's.  Because 
she  wished  her  mother  to  accompany  her  in  the  most 
benignant  state  of  mind,  she  was  striving  hard  not  to  be 
restless;  and  because  she  had  conjured  up  a  fascinating 
picture  of  herself  in  that  black  and  old-rose  gown,  her 
gray  eyes  were  gently  pensive  and  her  soft  lips  were 
parted,  as  if  in  brooding  tenderness.  So  rapt  was  she 
in  her  vision  that  the  cry  startled  her,  —  "Why,  Doro- 
thy! Can  it  be!" 

She  looked  up  to  see  Rosamond  Rappallo  and  her  hus- 
band. "Oh,  you  dear  people!"  She  sprang  from  her 
chair,  flung  her  arms  round  Rosamond  and  kissed  her. 
"Where  have  you  come  from?  Do  tell  me  you're  going 
to  stay!  You've  dropped  down  like  an  angel  from 
[  71  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

heaven,  for  there's  the  loveliest  gown  at  Paquin's,  you 
must  make  mother  buy  it  for  me.  Oh,  my  dear,  what 
fun  we  shall  have  in  the  shops!" 

She  hesitated  long  enough  to  give  her  hand  to  Graham 
and  to  permit  her  mother  to  join  in  the  greeting. 

"Yes,  we  just  got  in  from  Italy  last  night,"  Rosamond 
explained.  "Oh,  yes,  a  wonderful  time." 

"You  went  to  Venice?"  Mrs.  Vasmer  asked. 

"Yes;  it  was  lovely  there  —  moonlight  nights,  beau- 
tiful weather  — " 

"We  went  to  Venice  on  our  honeymoon,  my  husband 
and  I."  Mrs.  Vasmer's  tranquil  voice  had  a  momentary 
note  of  wistf ulness.  "I  've  never  quite  dared  to  go  back 
to  it  since  then,  for  fear  of  spoiling  what  was  so  perfect. 
And  yet  I  hover  round  the  thought  of  it.  —  You  '11  find 
that  you  always  will." 

Rosamond  was  transfixed  by  a  pang  at  the  thought 
that  in  her  honeymoon  she  had  missed  something  that 
others  had  found  and  treasured  in  theirs.  But  she  an- 
swered in  a  steady  voice.  "I'm  sure  that  I  shall  —  and 
some  time  we'll  be  brave  and  go  back  to  Venice,  won't 
we,  Graham?" 

"Of  course,"  he  said  cheerfully.  He  preferred  com- 
monplace to  sentiment  as  a  topic  of  general  conversa- 
tion, and  he  turned  to  Dorothy.  "Have  you  been  here 
long,  Miss  Vasmer?  Where  have  you  been  and  what 
have  you  been  doing?  " 

"  WVve  just  come  down  from  Munich,  where  we  had 

a  couple  of  weeks  of  opera.  We  shall  be  here  about 

a  month,  I  hope.     Father  is  sailing  from  New  York 

tomorrow  —  coming   over   to   take  us   home.  —  Oh, 

[    72    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Rosamond,  my  dear,  whom  do  you  think  we  saw  hi 
Vienna?" 

"I  can't  imagine." 

"Dr.  Brandon.  We  met  him  the  day  after  we  got 
there,  hurrying  to  a  medical  lecture,  with  his  books 
under  his  arm,  just  like  a  schoolboy.  He  could  barely 
wait  to  hear  where  we  were  stopping.  But  he  called  the 
next  afternoon,  and  then  he  dined  with  us  twice,  and 
took  us  to  an  open-air  band  concert.  He  was  too  busy  to 
do  more  than  that." 

"Too  busy?" 

"Yes,  he  was  studying  brain  surgery  under  some 
famous  man  —  I  can't  possibly  remember  his  name. 
He'd  gone  straight  there  from  Liverpool,  and  he'd  been 
at  it  all  summer.  He 's  still  at  it,  I  suppose,  —  although 
I  believe  he  said  the  course,  or  whatever  it  was,  would 
end  early  in  September." 

Graham  lighted  a  cigarette  and  flicked  the  match 
away  with  an  emphatic  gesture.  "That  makes  me  feel 
like  a  loafer,"  he  said.  "I  feel  that  it's  about  time  for 
me  to  be  doing  something,  too." 

"But,  Mr.  Rappallo,  Dr.  Brandon  is  n't  on  his  honey- 
moon," exclaimed  Mrs.  Vasmer. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  all  four  flushed  and  felt 
uncomfortable.  There  was  a  startled  recognition  of  the 
fact  that  the  bridegroom  had  been  detected  yawning,  as 
it  were,  over  his  happiness  and  had  been  reproved  in  a 
manner  too  open  to  be  considerate  of  either  his  feelings 
or  his  wife's.  Mrs.  Vasmer  tried  quickly  to  make 
amends. 

"After  all,  Dr.  Brandon  has  just  finished  with  a  six 
[  73  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

months'  vacation  in  South  America,  and  so  finds  work 
a  pleasant  novelty.  And  I  know  that  in  your  case,  Mr. 
Rappallo,  though  it  may  be  pleasant,  it  is  n't  a  novelty. 
Through  my  husband  I  keep  in  touch  with  the  profes- 
sion." 

Graham  expressed  polite  satisfaction  that  his  activi- 
ties had  commended  themselves  to  one  of  Mr.  Vasmer's 
eminence. 

"Yes,  they  have,"  Mrs.  Vasmer  assured  him.  "And 
now  I  '11  tell  you  something  —  although  I  usually  don't 
approve  of  complimenting  people  so  flatly.  When  I  first 
heard  that  you  were  going  to  marry  Rosamond,  I  asked 
my  husband  about  you;  and  he  said  in  his  most  delib- 
erate way  —  and  when  he  wants  to  be  impressive  he  is 
always  deliberate  —  'In  my  judgment,  no  girl  could  do 
better.'" 

"There!"  cried  Rosamond,  clasping  her  husband's 
arm;  and  the  faces  of  all  were  at  once  so  charged  with 
pleasure  that  Mrs.  Vasmer  felt  she  had  amply  atoned 
for  her  lapse.  She  rose  from  her  chair  and  said,  — 

"For  the  last  half -hour  Dorothy  has  been  straining 
at  the  leash.  Won't  you  come  with  us,  Rosamond,  and 
help  us  to  decide  about  the  ball  dress?" 

Rosamond  turned  a  questioning  glance  on  Graham. 

"Yes,  run  along,"  he  said.  "I'll  write  some  letters 
and  amuse  myself.  See  if  you  can't  pick  out  something 
pretty  for  me  to  give  you." 

"Is  n't  he  a  nice  husband!"  cried  Rosamond.  "In- 
deed, I  will,  Graham  dear." 

So  off  with  Dorothy  and  Mrs.  Vasmer  she  went  — 
feeling  quite  gay  and  exultant  at  being  in  the  company 
I  74  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

of  a  girl  friend  again.  The  shop  windows  took  on 
somehow  a  fresher  interest,  the  interchange  before 
them  of  enthusiastic  comment  or  criticism  was  delight- 
fully stimulating.  At  Paquin's  Rosamond  supported 
Dorothy's  choice,  and  Mrs.  Vasmer  acquiesced  in  it. 
Dorothy  then  assisted  Rosamond  to  pick  out  a  green- 
and-gold  ball  dress  for  herself. 

"Oh,  but  I  can't!"  cried  Rosamond,  aghast,  when 
she  had  learned  the  price. 

"It's  so  lovely,"  urged  Dorothy.  "If  your  husband 
saw  it,  he  could  n't  resist  it,  I  know.  It 's  just  the  thing 
for  your  coloring ;  you  'd  be  perfectly  stunning  in  it.  Men 
love  their  wives  to  be  stunning  when  they  go  to  balls." 

"Yes,  but  I  could  n't  suggest  his  giving  me  anything 
so  expensive  as  that." 

"Why  not?  If  he  can't  afford  it,  he'll  tell  you  so.  If 
he  can,  it 's  a  perfect  crime  for  you  not  to  have  it.  If  you 
won't  speak  to  him  about  it,  I  will." 

"I  suppose  I  might  ask  him  just  how  far  he  was  pre- 
pared to  go  when  he  told  me  to  get  something  pretty  for 
myself,"  said  Rosamond  doubtfully. 

"Yes,  do.  And  if  his  answer  is  n't  satisfactory,  tell 
him  you  '11  economize  in  every  other  way,  but  you  must 
have  that  gown.  You  must,  you  know;  I've  set  my 
heart  on  seeing  you  in  it." 

"Well,  I'll  talk  with  him  about  it,"  Rosamond  pro- 
mised. "  I  do  adore  pretty  things;  when  I  stand  and  look 
at  them  I  can  feel  my  backbone  soften.  Is  n't  it  too 
bad!" 

"All  attractive  girls  are  that  way,"  said  Dorothy 
sententiously.   "It  is  n't  nice  to  be  scrimpy." 
I    75    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"It  would  do  you  a  lot  of  good,  my  child,  to  marry  a 
poor  young  man,"  observed  Mrs.  Vasmer. 

"Thank  heaven  my  friends  are  mostly  rather  rich," 
was  Dorothy's  flippant  reply.  "Not  that  I'm  likely  to 
marry  any  of  them,  though." 

"Is  n't  it  funny  how  usual  it  is  to  marry  strangers!" 
said  Rosamond. 

Dorothy  shot  a  keen  glance  at  her;  they  were  passing 
out  of  the  shop.  "That's  about  the  only  way  you  can 
get  any  romance  into  your  life.  Romance  is  one  thing; 
comfort 's  another.  I  have  n't  made  up  my  mind  yet 
which  I  shall  choose.  Of  course  comfort  in  the  long 
run  would  be  the  best,  I  suppose  —  yet  it  would  be  hor- 
rid to  look  back  and  feel  you'd  never  had  the  other." 

"Yes,  horrid,"  said  Rosamond.  Now  that  she  was 
out  on  the  street  again,  she  was  unaccountably  think- 
ing of  George  Brandon  and  the  news  that  Dorothy  had 
given  of  him.  It  was  as  if  Dorothy  had  read  her  thought, 
for  she  said,  quite  irrelevantly,  — 

"Dr.  Brandon  told  me  that  he  is  coming  back  to 
Boston  to  practice  this  winter." 

"I  wonder  how  long  he  will  stick  to  it." 

"He  seemed  very  much  in  earnest  about  his  work." 

Rosamond  was  silent.  The  statement  she  had  just 
heard  assumed  a  wistful  probability.  Now  that 
George's  earnestness  in  the  pursuit  of  her  was  over, 
what  more  natural  than  that  he  should  pursue  with 
earnestness  that  which  on  account  of  her  he  had  ne- 
glected? She  wondered  if  she  could  ever  have  so  unset- 
tled Graham's  life  and  thoughts,  and  wished  that  she 
had  done  it  before  making  her  surrender.  Now  she 
I  76  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

could  never  do  it  —  and  it  was  obviously  not  a  thing 
that  a  woman  should  want  to  do  to  her  husband. 

Graham  returned  to  the  hotel  in  a  pleasant  state  of 
excitement.  He  had  found  his  way  over  to  the  Boule- 
vard St.  Germain,  to  the  War  Office,  and  there,  as  he 
was  entering  the  door,  had  encountered  Captain  Pierre 
Fortrel. 

"He  was  one  of  the  military  attaches  with  the  Ameri- 
can troops  in  Cuba,"  Graham  explained  to  Rosamond. 
"We  saw  a  good  deal  of  each  other  down  there,  and  still 
more  on  the  transport  coming  home.  In  fact,  he  fell  ill 
of  a  fever,  and  I  helped  look  after  him.  He's  now  at- 
tached to  the  general  staff,  and  has  had  a  hand  in  plan- 
ning the  autumn  maneuvers  which  are  to  take  place 
next  week  near  Poitiers." 

"Oh,"  said  Rosamond  quickly.  "You'd  like  to  go  to 
them,  would  n't  you?" 

Graham  tried  to  affect  indifference.  "Oh,  it  would  be 
rather  interesting.  Especially  as  Fortrel  has  offered  to 
introduce  me  at  headquarters.  Of  course,  having  the 
maneuvers  on  the  scene  of  one  of  the  great  battles  of  the 
world  is  an  additional  touch.  But  it  would  be  no  place 
for  a  lady  there,  and  I  'm  very  well  contented  to  be  in 
Paris  with  you." 

"I  should  n't  be  very  well  contented  to  have  you  on 
such  lukewarm  terms,"  said  Rosamond.  "You  must 
tell  Captain  Fortrel  at  once  that  you  will  go  with  him. 
Yes,  indeed,  you  must;  it's  much  too  interesting  a 
thing  for  you  to  miss." 

"I  don't  like  the  idea  of  leaving  you  here  alone  — " 

"I  shan't  be  alone.  I  shall  be  with  the  Vasmers. 
[  77  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

You  need  n't  have  the  slightest  hesitation  about  leav- 
ing me.  How  long  shall  you  be  gone?" 

"A  week,  probably." 

"I  shall  get  along  finely.  I  shan't  miss  you  at  all." 

"I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  say  that." 

"Why?  Do  you  think  that  you  will  miss  me?" 

"Of  course." 

"If  you  really  thought  that  you  would  n't  want  to  go. 
You  know  you  will  be  so  active  and  interested  and  ex- 
cited that  you  won't  miss  me  in  the  least.  If  you  don't 
know  it,  I  do,  Graham  dear." 

But  to  show  him  that  she  did  not  resent  it,  she  slipped 
her  arm  around  him  and  gave  him  an  understanding, 
affectionate  kiss.  He  caught  and  held  her  and  kissed 
her  with  the  sudden  ardor  that  always  gave  her  a  mo- 
mentary pleasant  tingling  of  the  senses. 

"You're  so  sweet  to  me,  Rosamond;  I  wonder  how 
I  can  ever  want  to  leave  you  for  a  moment!  But  I  do 
sometimes,  —  for  such  a  thing  as  this,  for  instance,  — 
and  the  coming  back  to  you  will  be  all  the  sweeter." 

"I  should  n't  want  you  to  be  one  of  those  uxorious 
husbands,"  said  Rosamond.  "The  man  who  is  too 
utterly  satisfied  with  his  wife's  society  is  just  a  lazy- 
bones." 

Graham  made  the  mistake  of  giving  to  this  statement 
his  unquestioning  assent.  "But  what  will  you  do  with 
yourself  while  I'm  gone?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I  shall  go  about  among  the  shops  with  Doro- 
thy." 

That  reminded  him  of  something.   "You  promised 
me  you'd  get  yourself  something  pretty.  Did  you?" 
I    78    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"  No,  but  I  saw  a  dress  that  I  liked;  only  it  was  fright- 
fully expensive." 

"How  much?" 

"I  don't  dare  to  tell  you." 

"A  thousand  francs?" 

"More  than  that." 

"Much  more?" 

"Fifteen  hundred." 

Graham  was  silent  for  a  moment,  as  if  computing. 
"Get  it,"  he  said,  "if  you  really  like  it." 

"Oh,  Graham,  can  you  afford  it,  truly?" 

"Yes,  perfectly.  And  if  you  see  other  things  that  you 
like  very  much  and  they're  within  reason,  get  them, 
too." 

"I  shouldn't  dare,  Graham.  You're  always  so  gen- 
erous. I  'm  afraid  I  should  be  extravagant  —  unless  you 
named  a  sum  that  I  was  n't  to  exceed." 

Again  Graham  was  silent  as  if  computing.  "Well," 
he  said,  "while  I'm  gone  you  can  spend  a  thousand 
francs  —  I  mean  on  things  for  yourself." 

"You  are  so  generous  to  me,  Graham.  I  don't  believe 
really  you  can  afford  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can,"  he  answered.  "Besides,  this  is  our 
honeymoon." 

That  was  not  the  happiest  thing  for  him  to  have  said. 
Showering  her  with  gifts,  he  was  trying  to  salve  the  hurt 
that  his  eagerness  to  rush  from  her  side  had  inflicted. 
Already,  she  thought,  he  was  buying  his  freedom  with 
gifts.  It  was  the  way  of  husbands,  no  doubt,  —  but  she 
wished  that  the  occasion  for  resorting  to  it  had  not  arisen 
on  their  honeymoon.  Then  she  found  that  in  spite  of 
[  79  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

this  sentiment,  the  thought  of  the  ball  dress  and  the 
thousand  francs  had  considerable  potency  over  her  in- 
jured feelings,  and  she  vaguely  regretted  that  it  could 
have.  It  seemed  to  mark  the  vanishing  of  all  the  tender, 
mystical,  ideal  meanings  that  had  hitherto  clung  for  her 
round  the  word  "bride." 

On  the  morning  of  his  departure  the  rain  poured 
down.  The  skies  were  so  dark  that  he  had  to  shave  by 
electric  light;  helping  him  pack  in  the  disordered  room, 
with  the  rain  beating  against  the  windows  and  with  its 
insistent  clatter  seeming  to  add  to  the  confusion,  Rosa- 
mond felt  unexpectedly  miserable.  She  wished  that  he 
would  give  her  a  glance,  read  what  was  in  her  heart, 
and  suddenly  tell  her  that  not  for  anything  would  he 
go  away.  Oh,  if  he  would  do  that,  how  she  could  love 
him  then!  Bending  over  his  bag  and  carefully  arranging 
socks  and  shirts,  she  hid  the  tears  that  were  in  her  eyes. 
Graham  was  stepping  briskly  about  the  room,  chat- 
ting cheerfully,  mainly  to  himself. —  "Razors,  yes, 
shaving-strop,  neckties,  handkerchiefs,  shaving-brush 
—  it 's  one  of  those  things  I  'm  likely  to  forget.  —  Yes, 
I  have  everything.  —  Now  let 's  see  if  the  old  bag  will 
shut." 

He  found  that  it  would,  and  when  he  looked  up  at 
Rosamond,  she  was  smiling.  "You're  a  wonderful  help 
at  packing,"  he  said.  "Too  bad  it's  such  a  beast  of  a 
day,  Rosamond,  but  don't  you  care;  you  and  Dorothy 
must  have  some  sort  of  a  spree." 

"Oh,  we  shall,"  she  assured  him. 

"Write  to  me  and  tell  me  all  about  yourself;  you're 
sure  you  have  n't  mislaid  the  address? —  All  right.  I'll 
[  80  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

drop  you  a  line  as  soon  as  I  arrive.  —  It 's  about  time 
the  boy  was  coming  for  the  bag." 

"Hadn't  you  better  ring?  You  mustn't  miss  your 
train." 

"Oh,  no,  they  're  always  prompt  in  these  hotels." 
And  then,  after  a  brief  interval  of  silence,  there  was  a 
knock  on  the  door;  the  boy  had  come.  After  he  had 
staggered  out  with  the  bag,  Graham  slipped  his  arm 
round  his  wife  and  said,  "You're  a  brick  to  let  me  go, 
Rosamond.  Have  a  good  time  and  buy  a  lot  of  nice 
things  to  show  me  when  I  come  back." 

"I  will,"  she  promised.  "Don't  fall  off  a  horse  or  get 
run  over  by  a  cannon  or  anything." 

"No,  indeed.  If  I  do,  I'll  telegraph  you.  Good-bye, 
dear." 

They  kissed  each  other,  and  she  accompanied  him 
downstairs  and  saw  him  drive  away,  and  gave  him  a 
last  glance  from  smiling  eyes. 

But  in  her  heart  she  felt  wounded.  If  only  he  had 
found  at  the  last  moment  that  he  could  not  leave  her! 
Or  even  if  in  going  he  had  shown  her  that  he  was  on  the 
brink  of  tears! 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   DESERTED   BRIDE 

ALL  the  morning  Mrs.  Vasmer  had  been  fretting 
because  she  had  received  no  word  from  her  hus- 
band, who  must  have  arrived  in  Liverpool  two  days  be- 
fore. In  the  afternoon  Dorothy  persuaded  her  to  go 
with  her  and  Rosamond  to  the  Opera  Comique.  "When 
we  get  back  to  the  hotel,  we  shall  probably  find  father 
waiting  for  us,"  she  said.  "You  know  he  likes  to  sur- 
prise us." 

Mrs.  Vasmer's  anxiety  to  return  to  the  hotel  and  find 
that  the  surprise  predicted  was  awaiting  her  interfered 
with  her  enjoyment  of  the  performance.  Driving  home, 
she  was  eager  and  nervous  with  expectancy.  Rosamond 
reflected  that  Mrs.  Vasmer  must  have  been  married  at 
least  thirty  years.  "Should  I  be  so  excited,  after  all 
that  time!"  she  wondered.  And  she  thought  again  of 
Mrs.  Vasmer's  confession  about  Venice,  and  felt  sad. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  hotel  the  concierge  gave 
Mrs.  Vasmer  a  telegram. 

"Oh,  he  is  n't  here!"  she  exclaimed  with  disappoint- 
ment. 

She  opened  the  telegram,  and  instantly  the  eager  and 

expectant  look  on  her  face  was  swept  away  by  terror. 

She  trembled  and  caught  Rosamond's  hand  and  gripped 

it  with  nervous  fingers —  so  bewildered  and  frightened 

[    82    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

that  she  did  not  know  that  it  was  not  her  daughter  to 
whom  she  clung. 

"Dorothy,  dear,"  she  cried  breathlessly,  "look,  dear. 
It's  bad  news;  do  —  do  you  think  it's  very  bad?  " 

Dorothy  with  a  pale  face  read  the  message  while 
Rosamond  led  Mrs.  Vasmer  to  a  chair  in  the  courtyard. 

"No,"  said  Dorothy  in  a  troubled  voice,  "no,  mother, 
dear;  it  seems  to  me  it  can't  be  —  so —  so  bad." 

"What  does  it  say?"  asked  Rosamond. 

Dorothy  held  the  message  out  to  her,  and  she  read :  — 

"  CHBIST  CHURCH  HOSPITAL,  LONDON. 
"Operation  on  Mr.  Vasmer  appendicitis  this  after- 
noon.  Condition  serious  but  not  alarming. 

"RoxTON,  Surgeon." 

"Dear  Mrs.  Vasmer,  you  must  n't  dread  anything," 
Rosamond  said.  "It's  not  alarming,  the  doctor  says  — 
and  the  fact  that  the  operation  is  safely  over  — " 

"But  is  it?  It  does  n't  say  that,  and  his  condition's 
serious —  it  means  —  oh,  I  don't  dare  to  think  what  it 
means!"  Mrs.  Vasmer  rose,  still  trembling,  but  with 
the  firmness  of  self-control.  "Dorothy,  we  must  go  to 
your  father  at  once.  I  wonder  if  we  can  get  a  train  to- 
night." 

"I'll  find  out  for  you,"  Rosamond  said.  "I'll  make 
all  the  arrangements  and  bring  you  word." 

"Thank  you,  dear.  Come,  Dorothy;  we  must  begin 
our  packing  now." 

Rosamond  learned  that  there  was  a  train  at  seven 
o'clock,  and  that  by  taking  it  they  could  be  in  London 
[  83  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

at  eight  o'clock  the  next  morning.   In  half  an  hour  she 
was  driving  with  them  to  the  station. 

"My  dear,  you've  been  such  a  help  to  us,"  Mrs.  Vas- 
mer  said.  "And  I  feel  so  sorry  at  leaving  you  here  all 
alone.  Do  telegraph  your  husband  and  have  him  come 
back." 

"Oh,  dear,  no,"  said  Rosamond.  "I  know  Paris 
pretty  well,  and  I  shall  find  plenty  to  do." 

At  the  gate  she  kissed  them  and  bade  them  good-by, 
and  with  sympathetic  eyes  watched  them  while  they 
followed  the  porter  along  the  platform. 

Returning  in  a  fiacre  to  her  hotel  she  felt  depressed. 
The  telegram  had  been  ominous;  she  dreaded  to  think 
what  Mrs.  Vasmer  and  Dorothy  might  find  upon  their 
arrival  in  London.  Not  until  this  trouble  had  come 
upon  them  had  she  known  how  affectionate  was  her 
feeling  for  them.  Now  that  her  hands  were  empty  and 
she  could  no  longer  help,  she  felt  not  the  freedom  but 
the  constraint  of  her  loneliness. 

Her  dinner  that  evening  in  the  brilliant  dining-room 
was  a  new  experience.  It  was  perhaps  the  first  meal 
that  she  had  ever  eaten  alone  —  the  first  meal  certainly 
of  such  formality.  She  had  dressed  carefully,  she  wore 
her  jewels,  she  was  handsome;  the  eyes  of  the  men  dwelt 
on  her.  She  had  not  minded  this  when  she  had  been  din- 
ing with  her  husband  or  with  the  Vasmers;  she  had  even 
liked  it.  Now  it  disconcerted  her;  she  felt  as  if  she  could 
easily  break  into  sobs;  she  felt  exposed,  unprotected. 
She  finished  her  dinner  hastily,  and  going  at  once  to  her 
room  resolved  that  until  Graham  returned  she  would 
not  dine  so  publicly  again. 

[    84    J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

She  spent  the  evening  writing  to  him,  but  although 
she  described  fully  what  she  had  done  in  the  morning 
and  the  performance  at  the  theater  in  the  afternoon,  she 
said  nothing  whatever  of  the  departure  of  the  Vasmers. 
She  had  been  deterred  by  two  considerations;  one,  that 
if  she  mentioned  their  departure  he  might  feel  compelled 
to  come  to  her,  and  the  other  that  if  she  mentioned 
their  departure  he  might  not  think  it  necessary  to  come 
to  her.  It  was  the  second  possibility  that  she  dreaded 
the  more.  The  letter  that  she  wrote  was  such  as  must 
surely  have  made  the  man  who  received  it  think  of  her 
with  love  and  tenderness. 

It  was  only  a  week  that  she  had  to  wait  for  her  hus- 
band's return  —  so  she  told  herself  with  an  effort  at 
cheerfulness.  A  week  —  and  surely  she  was  not  so  poor 
a  creature  as  to  lack  resources  for  occupying  herself  dur- 
ing that  space  of  time.  Hitherto  she  had  always  felt  a 
shy  and  modest  confidence  in  her  courage  and  independ- 
ence. But  upon  this  evening  it  all  seemed  to  have  van- 
ished. Married  woman  though  she  was,  she  seemed  only 
an  inexperienced  and  very  lonely  little  girl. 

She  went  to  bed  early;  but  with  the  lights  out,  in- 
stead of  falling  asleep  she  became  harassed  by  terrifying 
thoughts.  Suppose  some  disaster  should  befall  Gra- 
ham! He  might  meet  with  an  accident,  he  might  be 
stricken  with  typhoid  fever;  in  military  operations  ty- 
phoid fever  was  always  to  be  expected.  Why  had  she 
not  thought  of  this  before;  why  had  she  ever  let  him  go? 
She  tried  to  think  if  there  was  anybody  at  all  in  Paris 
whom  she  knew,  anybody  to  whom  she  might  turn,  but 
there  was  no  one.  The  Countess  of  Cassieres  had  not 
[  85  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

yet  returned  to  town;  and  Rosamond  had  not  happened 
to  encounter  any  American  friends.  As  she  lay  in  bed 
and  thought  about  it,  her  isolation  seemed  to  grow  more 
and  more  appalling.  She  might  fall  ill  herself,  and  there 
would  be  nobody  to  care  for  her;  how  desperate  for  Gra- 
ham if  she  should  die!  She  pitied  him  and  yearned  for 
him.  The  hours  passed  and  she  tossed  restlessly.  "Oh, 
Graham,  dear,  how  could  you  have  gone  away  from  me ! " 
she  sighed.  She  who  had  never  before  felt  lonely  in  her 
life  and  who  had  looked  upon  marriage  as  all  com- 
panionship and  comradeship  was  finding  that  it  meant 
at  times  an  undreamed-of  loneliness  too. 

At  last  she  slept;  she  awoke  to  see  the  window  cur- 
tains blowing  airily  horizontal  in  shafts  of  sunlight.  She 
dressed,  and  while  she  was  dressing  a  postcard  was 
slipped  under  her  door.  It  was  from  her  husband,  and 
announced  his  safe  arrival  at  the  camp  headquarters. 
He  had  written,  "With  my  love,"  and  had  drawn  after 
that  a  circle,  which  she  knew  was  intended  to  designate 
a  kiss.  She  pressed  her  lips  to  it  and  smiled  at  her  silli- 
ness; then  she  put  the  postcard  into  her  purse  in  order 
that,  wherever  she  went,  she  might  have  that  message 
with  her. 

"I  don't  look  so  very  haggard,"  she  thought  with 
pleasure  as  she  pinned  on  her  hat.  "What  a  fine  morn- 
ing! I  think  after  breakfast  I  shall  stroll  over  to  the 
Luxembourg." 

While  she  was  at  breakfast,  a  telegram  was  brought 
to  her.  She  knew  that  it  must  be  from  the  Vasmers;  she 
opened  it  anxiously  and  read :  — 

[    86    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"Arrived  safely.  Father  quite  comfortable;  we  feel 
hopeful.  DOROTHY." 

Rosamond  said  to  herself,  "I  'm  so  glad;  oh,  is  n't  it 
a  fine  morning!"  And  she  looked  happily  out  at  the 
sunny  courtyard,  with  its  semi-tropical  shrubs.  How 
foolish  had  been  her  fears  of  the  night  before,  and  all  her 
thoughts  of  death !  She  felt  now  exultant  in  her  tempo- 
rary freedom;  what  though  it  did  mean  loneliness!  She 
had  before  her  the  thrill  of  possible  adventure. 

Leaving  the  hotel  she  walked  down  to  the  Garden  of 
the  Tuileries.  The  old  gentleman  who  charmed  the 
birds  was  there;  the  sparrows  fluttered  round  him  and 
alighted  on  his  arms  and  shoulders  and  hat.  He  must 
be  a  kindly  soul,  she  thought  —  and  who  would  not  be 
kindly  in  these  pleasant  open  gardens?  Yet  what  hor- 
rors they  had  seen! 

She  crossed  the  Pont  Royal  and  walked  slowly  along 
the  Quai  Voltaire.  In  front  of  the  Institut  she  stopped 
to  watch  two  extremely  able-bodied  men  who  were 
making  a  living  by  lifting  enormous  heavy  weights  and 
then  quickly  passing  the  hat  while  the  spectators  still 
stood  rooted  in  astonishment.  Rosamond  had  dropped 
in  a  half-franc  and  was  turning  away  when  she  heard  her 
name  cried  out;  she  raised  her  eyes  and  saw  George 
Brandon  approaching  her;  he  had  plucked  off  his  hat 
and  was  holding  out  his  hand,  and  his  face  was  as 
radiant  as  the  morning. 

"Rosamond!"  he  exclaimed.  "George!"  she  cried. 
In  the  utterance  of  each  name  there  was  the  clear  accent 
of  surprised  delight.  They  stood,  looking  each  into  the 
I  87  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

other's  face,  laughing  eagerly,  greeting  each  other  over 
and  over  again  excitedly,  George  still  bareheaded,  his 
eyes  shining,  his  lips  smiling,  Rosamond  with  the  tremu- 
lous trill  of  laughter  that  had  always  made  her  to  him 
the  most  appealing  creature  in  the  world,  and  with  a 
warm  flush  on  her  cheeks. 

"Where  are  you  going  now,  George?"  she  asked  at 
last. 

"This  moment?" 

"Yes." 

"Wherever  you  are.  —  That  is,  if  you'll  let  me." 

That  note  of  uncertainty  and  deference  touched  and 
somehow  hurt  her.  In  other  days  he  would  not  have 
felt  it  necessary  to  ask  permission.  "Oh,  I  shall  be  so 
glad  to  have  you  with  me!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  was 
going  to  the  Luxembourg.  Should  you  like  that?" 

"Above  all  things." 

One  of  the  strong  men  interposed  politely  with  his  hat.. 
George  transferred  to  it  a  coin  which  produced  a  pro- 
found obeisance. 

"George,* dear!"  exclaimed  Rosamond  reprovingly  as 
they  walked  away.  "That  was  a  two-franc  piece!" 

"Well,  perhaps  he  deserved  it,"  George  answered. 
"I  feel  like  enriching  all  the  poor  this  morning." 

They  turned  into  the  Rue  de  Seine.  George  walked 
by  Rosamond's  side  feeling  almost  incredulous  of  his 
happiness.  She  was  aware  of  his  feeling  and  was  pleased 
and  touched,  even  while  wondering  at  it  —  for  on  ship- 
board he  had  shown  her  that  he  was  determined  to  up- 
root the  sentiment  that  had  flourished  for  so  many 
years.  She  was  quite  brimming  with  the  joyous  excite- 
[  88  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

ment  at  finding  that  he  was  still  under  her  spell.  To 
have  him  glancing  at  her  again  with  the  old  admiration 
in  his  eyes  and  the  gay  smile  on  his  lips  inflated  her  with 
a  buoyancy  such  as  she  had  not  often  felt  during  her 
honeymoon.  Indeed,  as  they  walked  towards  the  Lux- 
embourg they  presented  the  most  charming  appearance 
of  two  young  Americans  freshly  arrived  upon  their  wed- 
ding tour.  Graham  and  Rosamond  walking  together 
had  some  time  since  ceased  to  attract  such  smiling  at- 
tention as  was  now  bestowed  upon  George  and  Rosa- 
mond. 

"I'm  very  fortunate,"  George  said.  "I  arrived  only 
this  morning  and  I'm  leaving  day  after  to-morrow; 
what  luck  to  find  you  without  the  loss  of  a  moment!" 

"What  luck!"  Rosamond  echoed;  but  she  inwardly 
sighed,  "Day  after  to-morrow!"  She  said  aloud,  "You 
don't  give  much  time  to  Paris." 

"Not  now;  I'm  homeward  bound.  I'm  sailing  from 
Cherbourg  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  are  you ! "  Incautiously  a  note  of  envy  crept  into 
her  voice.  She  tried  to  obliterate  it  by  adding  quickly, 
"I  look  forward  to  two  or  three  more  weeks  here;  Paris 
is  just  beginning  to  be  gay." 

"Yes,  but  I'm  just  beginning  to  be  serious-minded." 

"Dorothy  Vasmer  told  me  that  you  were." 

"  Oh !  You  Ve  seen  Miss  Vasmer ! " 

"They've  been  stopping  at  the  same  hotel." 

"Is  she  still  there?" 

She  thought  she  detected  eagerness  in  his  question, 
and  she  was  rather  glad  now  to  be  able  to  answer,  "No." 

"I'm  sorry.  I  hoped  that  I  might  encounter  her 
[  89  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

again.  She's  very  attractive  —  and  her  mother's 
charming." 

His  regret  was  so  clearly  casual  that  Rosamond's 
momentary  jealousy  vanished.  She  told  him  of  the  mis- 
fortune that  had  befallen  the  Vasmers.  George  shook 
his  head. 

"English  surgeons  don't  operate  for  appendicitis 
with  the  same  success  as  our  men.  I  hope  all  will  go  well, 
—  Was  it  the  gallery  that  you  wanted  to  visit?" 

"Oh,  I  shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  look  at  pictures 
when  I'm  alone."  The  admission  of  loneliness  slipped 
out  before  she  realized  it;  she  reddened  and  added, 
"Let's go  into  the  garden  and  find  a  pleasant  seat  where 
we  can  talk." 

They  passed  through  the  gate,  and  George  said, 
"Your  husband  does  n't  care  much  for  sight-seeing?  " 

"I  think  we  all  get  rather  bored  with  it  at  times. 
There,  if  we  go  down  this  path  we  shan't  be  compelled 
to  look  at  the  twenty  marble  Frenchwomen.  There  's  a 
seat  under  a  chestnut  tree;  shall  we  go  there?  " 

"I  don't  care  where  we  go.  I 'm  having  a  good  time." 

"So  am  I.  Well!  Let's  sit  down  and  talk  about  all 
our  good  times." 

She  told  him  of  the  places  she  had  visited  and  the 
friends  she  had  met.  She  spoke  of  her  husband's  inter- 
est in  battlefields  —  but  she  refrained  from  mentioning 
that  it  had  now  taken  Graham  from  her  side.  She  did 
not  wish  George  to  know  of  this  act  of  desertion.  Lean- 
ing forward  with  her  hands  resting  on  the  ivory  top  of 
her  parasol,  looking  round  at  him  from  under  her  pretty 
hat,  she  seemed  to  George  more  delightful  than  she  had 
[  90  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

ever  been  before,  because  she  was  more  radiant  with  the 
pleasure  of  the  moment;  never  before,  he  felt,  had  she 
been  quite  so  glad  to  see  him  as  she  was  now.  The  cause 
of  this  roused  his  curiosity;  was  it  that  she  was  so  happy 
in  her  marriage  that  such  joyous  gayety  always  streamed 
from  her  —  or  was  it  that  in  the  disillusion  of  her  mar- 
riage the  sight  of  her  old  lover  was  doubly  welcome  to 
her  eyes?  George  hoped  that  she  was  happy,  yet  he 
would  also  have  been  glad  to  be  assured  that  the  cause 
of  the  warmth  in  her  tone,  the  soft  brilliancy  in  her  eyes, 
was  personal  to  him. 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed  suddenly,  "I'm  so  glad  you're 
willing  to  sit  on  a  bench  with  me  and  talk!  The  last 
time  we  met,  you  made  me  feel  that  you  'd  never  do  any- 
thing like  that  again!" 

"I  was  rather  silly,"  he  admitted.  "My  disappoint- 
ment then  was  too  sharp ;  I  did  feel  that  I  could  n't  com- 
fortably be  near  you  any  more.  But  a  man  overcomes 
that  state  of  feeling  in  time  —  and  it 's  foolish  for  him  to 
deprive  himself  of  little  pleasures  just  because  he  can't 
have  great  happiness." 

That  speech,  delivered  so  smilingly,  wounded  her;  it 
declared  his  emancipation. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "I  don't  quite  like  to  think  of 
myself  just  as  one  of  your  little  pleasures." 

"You  liked  even  less  to  think  of  yourself  as  my  great 
happiness,"  he  reminded  her. 

"I  wonder  if  women  are  unlike  men  in  that  they  al- 
ways want  to  have  their  cake  and  eat  it  too,"  she  mused. 
"I  shall  really  feel  quite  badly,  George,  when  I  hear  of 
your  engagement." 

[    91    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"That,  I  imagine,  is  a  pain  that  you  will  never  be 
compelled  to  suffer." 

"Oh,  yes."  A  mirthful  glance  from  her  eyes  traveled 
slowly  over  his  debonair  person  and  rested  on  his  whim- 
sically inclined  face.  "You  have  traveled  a  long  way 
since  you  left  the  steamer.  Your  goal  may  not  yet  be 
in  sight,  but  it  may  confront  you  now  any  day,  any 
hour." 

"No  girl  can  be  my  goal.  Seeing  you  makes  me  know 
that." 

"Ah,  you  must  learn  to  take  your  little  pleasures 
lightly." 

"There  is  no  pleasure  unless  one  abandons  one's  self 
to  it  utterly." 

"And  will  you  do  that  to  me  to-day?" 

"As  far  as  I  may  be  permitted.  That  is  to  say,  until 
your  excellent  husband  joins  us.  I  have  never  liked  to 
feel  that  I  was  the  third  person,  and  in  this  particular 
instance  my  dislike  of  that  situation  is  poignant." 

"I  won't  force  you  into  it.  In  fact,  to-day  Graham  is 
with  some  military  friends  —  an  attache  whom  he  knew 
in  Cuba,  and  some  others.  That  is  how  I  happened  to 
be  alone  this  morning.  I  was  expecting  to  lunch  alone 
and  pass  the  afternoon  alone."  —  This  she  felt,  was  all 
truthful,  even  if  not  the  whole  truth;  more,  from  a  senti- 
ment of  wounded  pride,  she  could  not  bring  herself  to 
confess. 

"Ah,  but  alone  no  longer!  Then  this  day  is  mine." 

"Would  you  like  it?  Would  you  care  to  lunch  with 
me?" 

"I  with  you  —  you  with  me  —  both  of  us  together  I 
[  92  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Was  n't  I  lucky  to  be  walking  on  the  Quai  this  morn- 
ing!" 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him  softly;  she  had  never 
realized  before  how  sweet  and  nourishing  to  her  happi- 
ness was  the  expression  of  his  admiration  and  his  love. 

They  walked  slowly  across  the  Pont  de  Carrousel, 
through  the  Tuileries  Garden,  up  the  Rue  Roy  ale;  it 
was  a  golden,  peaceful,  still  September  noon;  strolling 
along,  in  response  to  Rosamond's  questions,  George  out- 
lined his  plans.  He  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  obtain 
the  position  of  assistant  to  Dr.  Armazet;  it  was  a  place 
that  would  insure  him  plenty  of  practice  in  general  sur- 
gery and  also  plenty  of  discipline.  "Which,  according 
to  my  sister  Hetty,  is  what  I  very  much  need.  Dr. 
Armazet's  regard  for  my  father  seems  to  have  been 
greater  than  his  distrust  of  a  rolling  stone.  He  was  good 
enough  to  write  that  he  thought  I  must  have  inherited 
some  qualities.  Now  I  must  prove  that  I  have." 

Rosamond  glanced  at  him  with  sudden  new  interest. 
She  had  often  heard  him  express  dogged  determination 
—  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  hearing  him  express  it  — 
but  never  before,  as  she  would  have  said,  about  a  matter 
so  well  worth  while!  And  there  was  a  ring  of  content- 
ment, too,  in  his  voice  as  he  stated  his  purpose. 

They  lunched,  and  then  they  went  driving  in  the 
Bois,  and  had  tea  at  the  Pre  Catelan.  Now  that  he  was 
no  longer  pursuing  her,  no  longer  sang  but  one  many- 
cadenced  song,  she  began  to  find  him  more  interesting 
than  she  had  ever  hitherto  supposed  him;  in  the  easy 
intercourse  of  the  afternoon  he  revealed  unconsciously 
a  maturity  which  seemed  to  her  strangely  new.  He  was 
[  03  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

George  Brandon,  and  yet  he  was  not  George  Brandon; 
and  she  was  led  to  the  wistful  reflection  that  not  until 
after  a  man  ceases  to  love  a  girl  too  consumingly  is  she 
likely  to  see  him  in  his  full  stature.  Graham  had  never 
loved  her  quite  as  George  had  done;  he  had  always  been 
able  to  reserve  a  due  share  of  his  attention  for  his  busi- 
ness and  his  regular  diversions;  and  she  had  admired 
the  strength  and  poise  of  such  a  nature.  Now  she  found 
herself  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  a  little  in  awe  of  George. 
It  was  an  incredible  feeling  for  her  to  have  in  his  presence; 
yet  at  moments  some  shrewd  utterance  that  showed  a 
deeper  insight  than  she  had  ever  attributed  to  him,  some 
hardly  to  be  defined  indication  of  an  adequacy  to  situa- 
tions which  she  had  never  dreamed  that  he  could  attain, 
struck  her  with  astonishment  and  awakened  in  her 
that  feeling  which  she  would  not  have  believed  he  could 
inspire.  To  find  the  old  friend  and  comrade  and  also  to 
discover  an  interesting  and  unsuspected  personality  was 
fascinating;  driving  back  to  her  hotel  she  could  not  put 
out  of  her  mind  a  sense  of  sadness  that  there  was  to  be 
but  one  more  day  of  this  companionship. 

The  thought  of  the  lonely  dinner,  the  lonely  evening 
that  awaited  her,  presented  itself.  She  shrank  from  it  — 
not  so  much  from  the  loneliness  as  from  the  thoughts  that 
she  knew  would  surely  come  to  her  with  loneliness.  As 
they  drove  up  to  the  hotel,  she  said  with  sudden  appeal, 
"George,  won't  you  dine  with  me  to-night?" 

"With  you?"  he  said,  hesitating. 

"Yes.     I  shall  be  alone.    I  —  I  don't  know  why  I 
did  n't  tell  you  at  first.  Graham  has  gone  to  Poitiers  to 
see  the  army  maneuvers.  He  won't  be  back  to-nig}it.  It 
I    94    ] 


will  be  so  lonely  dining  in  the  hotel  —  unless  you  will 
come." 

"Of  course  I'll  come  —  how  sweet  of  you  to  ask  me! 
But  I  don't  understand  —  left  here  all  alone  — " 

The  sentence  though  incomplete  was  charged  with 
disapproval. 

"Oh,  you  see,  I  was  with  the  Vasmers  —  But  here  we 
are;  I '11  tell  you  about  it  this  evening.  I've  had  a  splen- 
did day,  George.  And  I  shall  look  for  you  at  seven." 

George  drove  on  to  his  hotel  in  a  puzzled  frame  of 
mind.  It  had  struck  him  as  odd  that  throughout  the 
day  she  seemed  to  be  evading  reference  to  her  husband. 
He  had  attributed  it  to  a  kind  forbearance.  Now  he 
wondered  if  there  might  be  another  cause  of  her  reticence 
—  if  she  and  Graham  were  at  odds. 

At  dinner,  Rosamond,  leaning  forward  and  looking  at 
George  with  a  mischievous  happy  light  in  her  hazel  eyes, 
did  not  look  like  a  grieving  wife.  Listening  to  her  voice, 
watching  her  lovely  lips,  glancing  at  the  smooth  white 
neck  and  shoulders  above  the  white-and-green  of  her 
dress,  George  felt  the  old  fascination  stealing  over  him 
and  surrendered  to  it  willingly.  "Howl  should  like  to 
be  sitting  opposite  you  like  this  every  night!"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"I  wish  that  you  might  be,  for  about  a  week,"  she 
answered. 

"Has  your  husband  left  you  alone  for  a  week?" 

"It  was  a  great  opportunity  that  presented  itself.  A 

French  officer  whom  he  knew  in  Cuba  is  chaperoning  him; 

he  will  see  everything.  And  he  left  me  with  the  Vasmers. 

That  very  day  they  were  summoned  to  London.  I  knew 

[    95    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

that  Graham  would  hurry  back  to  me  if  he  knew  — 
so  I  have  n't  told  him  that  I'm  alone." 

"Why  not?  Do  you  enjoy  being  alone?" 

"No;  it's  perfectly  horrid." 

"It  isn't  right  to  leave  your  husband  in  ignorance. 
You  say  that  he  would  come  to  you  at  once;  you  should 
let  him." 

"You  don't  understand  his  interest  in  these  military 
matters.  He  was  so  delighted  to  have  this  chance  to 
study  the  French  tactics.  I  don't  want  him  to  be  dis- 
appointed." 

George  was  silent.  He  felt  that  such  a  breach  in  the 
honeymoon  justified  his  suspicion  of  the  husband's  selfish- 
ness. He  suggested  that  they  might  go  to  some  theater. 
Rosamond  said  that  she  would  rather  sit  with  him  and 
talk.  So  they  had  their  coffee  in  the  courtyard,  between 
the  palms  and  the  cool  plashing  fountain.  While  they 
talked,  the  sultriness  of  the  evening  grew  heavier;  pres- 
ently there  was  a  lightning  flash  and  thunder  rolled  in 
the  distance;  then  came  the  first  drops  of  rain.  They 
retreated  to  the  arcade;  the  rain  poured  down  in  a  sudden 
deluge  on  palms  and  gravel  walks,  trampled  with  tiny 
feet  on  the  roofs,  and  gushed  with  an  eager  gurgling  from 
the  pipes;  the  little  fountain  could  no  longer  be  heard. 
Overhead  rioted  the  lightning  and  thunder  in  their  full 
fury;  the  electric  lights  of  the  court  and  of  the  arcade 
dwindled  to  a  dim  redness;  within  the  hotel  lamps  and 
candles  began  to  twinkle.  Lightning  smeared  the  interior 
of  the  court  and  vanished  in  a  thunder  crash  again  and 
again  and  again. 

"Would  you  feel  safer  inside?"  George  asked. 
[    96    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"I  don't  want  to  go  inside,"  Rosamond  answered. 
"Yet  a  thunderstorm  does  terrify  me;  I  always  feel  as  if 
I  wanted  to  cling  to  some  one." 

It  was  innocently  said;  and  the  next  flash  revealed  her 
with  one  hand  nervously  raised  to  her  throat,  the  other 
clasping  hard  the  arm  of  her  chair.  With  a  sudden  im- 
pulse of  protection  George  reached  out  and  covered  that 
hand  with  his.  Dear  little  hand,  so  soft  and  firm  and 
warm,  so  yielding  and  gentle  —  like  the  girl  herself!  He 
had  never  before  held  it  so,  and  she  did  not  withdraw 
it  from  his  grasp.  They  sat  together  silent,  while  rain 
and  lightning  and  thunder  stormed  before  them. 

Then  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come,  the  rain  slackened, 
the  thunder  rolled  off  into  the  distance.  The  mild  and 
unperturbed  little  fountain  was  again  tinkling;  cool 
odors  pervaded  the  court;  Rosamond  withdrew  her 
hand. 

"  I  'm  silly  to  be  afraid,"  she  said.  " I  have  always  been 
so  in  thunderstorms." 

"I  liked  having  you  afraid." 

There  was  an  awkward  silence;  each  felt  that  the  other 
hovered  on  the  brink  of  speech.  Rosamond  knew  that 
she  had  regained  all  her  sovereignty.  His  hand  had  quiv- 
ered when  it  closed  on  hers;  she  knew  the  pressure  of 
eagerness  and  trembling  love.  So  for  a  few  weeks  had  her 
husband  often  pressed  her  hand ;  lately  when  he  had  been 
in  an  affectionate  mood,  he  had  smoothed  and  stroked  it 
with  the  flaccid  contentment  of  accustomed  possession. 
She  knew  how  bitterly  she  rebelled  against  such  unexcited 
appropriation  of  her  person,  how  much  it  meant  to  her  to 
feel  that  she  could  impart  a  wilder  impulse  to  a  lover's 
[  97  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

heart.  And  George  Brandon  felt  that  she  was  drawing 
him  whither  he  did  not  know  and  did  not  care;  he  loved 
her,  and  her  husband  neglected  her;  let  fate  take  its 
course. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "you  go  back  to  America  to-morrow!" 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  stay?" 

"I  couldn't  urge  that.  But  this  day  has  been  so 
pleasant!  And  I  had  thought  it  would  be  so  dreary!" 

"Lookup!" 

The  crescent  moon  had  swum  out  placidly  from  the 
broken  clouds.  The  water  dripping  more  leisurely  from 
the  eaves  had  now  a  placid  sound  —  as  placid  as  that  of 
the  unperturbed  fountain. 

"Lookup  at  that  moon,"  said  George.  "And  think  a 
moment  —  and  then  tell  me  what  you  would  have  me 
do." 

She  raised  her  eyes,  and  he  possessed  himself  again  of 
her  hand;  she  yielded  it  to  his  pressure.  But  when  she 
looked  round  at  him,  she  withdrew  it. 

"I'll  stay  if  you  want  me,"  he  said. 

"I  should  n't  ask  it  —  and  you've  made  all  your  en- 
gagements." 

"They're  easily  canceled." 

"It  would  n't  do  to  cancel  that  with  Dr.  Armazet." 

"No  doubt  he  would  give  me  a  week's  grace." 

"Do  you  think  he  would?  Oh,  I'm  so  selfish!  I  do 
want  you  to  stay.  We  could  have  such  a  good  time." 

"I  will  cable  to  Dr.  Armazet  in  the  morning,"  said 
George.  "It  will  be  splendid  to  have  a  week  with  you  — 
all  to  myself." 

Tingling  and  thrilling  still  from  the  touch  of  her  soft 
[  98  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

hand,  from  the  music  of  her  voice,  from  the  confession  of 
her  eagerness  and  her  dependence,  he  could  not  look 
beyond  the  seven  bright  days. 

But  during  his  walk  back  to  his  hotel  late  that  evening, 
he  underwent  a  reaction  of  mood.  Sanity  returned  to 
him.  He  was  by  no  means  sure  that  Dr.  Annazet  would 
hold  a  place  open  that  had  been  bestowed  with  some  dis- 
trust of  the  applicant's  stability.  Indeed,  Rosamond's 
willingness  that  George  should  make  for  her  pleasure 
what  must  in  any  event  be  a  considerable  sacrifice  ren- 
dered the  sacrifice  already  burdensome.  In  a  foolishly 
romantic  moment  he  had  offered  it;  ah,  but  she  should 
have  had  strength  enough  to  decline  it.  Just  that  she 
might  be  amused  for  a  week,  she  was  lightly  letting  him 
imperil  his  one  great  chance  for  a  career. 

She,  poor  girl,  was  weak,  no  doubt,  yet  she  had  con- 
sented to  his  suggestion  from  less  trivial  motives  than  he 
had  thought.  He  was  the  man  who  had  loved  her  longest 
and  most  constantly,  whom  from  her  young  girlhood  she 
had  vaguely  supposed  she  might  some  day  marry,  and 
on  whom,  in  a  time  of  aberration,  she  had  forever  closed 
the  door.  He  united  her  with  what  had  been  sweet  and 
winning  in  her  past;  she  had  treated  him  cruelly  and  he 
loved  her  still !  He  offered  her  a  week  of  happiness  such 
as  perhaps  she  might  never  again  know,  and  she  accepted 
it,  not  lightly,  but  with  an  eager  and  wistful  heart. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  BEGINNING   OF  AN  EXCURSION 

ROSAMOND  found  that  she  had  embarked  upon  a 
course  that  required  her  to  deceive  her  husband. 
She  had  promised  to  write  him  daily  letters.  Now  that 
she  had  George  with  her  each  day  she  did  not  wish  to 
hasten  Graham's  return ;  and  she  was  sure  that  she  would 
if  she  informed  him  of  her  situation.  If  she  did  not  write 
at  all,  Graham  would  probably  be  telegraphing  to  find 
out  the  reason  for  her  silence;  he  might  even  come  posting 
to  Paris.  So  she  wrote  to  him  every  evening,  even  as  she 
had  promised,  without  ever  mentioning  George's  name 
or  the  fact  that  the  Vasmers  had  gone  to  London. 
"Tuesday  we  went  to  Fontainebleau,"  she  wrote  — 
knowing  how  he  would  interpret  the  word  "we."  By 
using  it  consistently  in  all  her  letters  and  never  bringing 
in  a  name,  she  was  able  to  give  an  accurate  and  at  the 
same  time  misleading  record  of  her  movements.  Doing 
this,  she  sank  in  her  own  estimation;  for  very  shame  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  read  over  one  of  the  letters  that 
she  thus  equivocally  indited.  She  was  fully  determined 
to  free  her  conscience  as  soon  as  Graham  came  back;  she 
would  explain  to  him  why  she  had  chosen  to  deceive  him; 
that  she  had  not  wished  to  interrupt  his  interesting  mili- 
tary observations.  After  all,  her  course  was  fundament- 
ally innocent  and  harmless  even  if  superficially  culpable; 
she  did  not  apprehend  any  difficulty  in  demonstrating 
this  to  Graham. 

I    100    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Fontainebleau  and  Versailles  and  Meudon,  drives 
through  the  Bois,  and  pleasant  letterings  —  so  the  days 
slipped  by.  If  Graham  and  the  time  of  reckoning  had 
not  lurked  in  the  background,  these  would  have  been  for 
Rosamond  very  delightful  days.  For  George,  too,  if 
Graham  had  not  been  an  existing  and,  even  though 
absent,  an  obtrusive  fact,  these  would  have  been  de- 
lightful days.  The  compunctions  that  he  had  felt  over 
the  possible  sacrifice  of  an  auspicious  professional  oppor- 
tunity soon  vanished.  The  situation  in  which  he  found 
himself  was  baffling  and  bewildering,  but  it  was  exciting. 
This  young  bride,  deserted  and  neglected  on  her  honey- 
moon, had  fallen  under  his  protection  —  and  had  more 
nearly  fallen  in  love  with  him  than  ever  before.  Why 
had  she  married  Rappallo?  George  could  swear  to  him- 
self that  she  was  regretting  it.  Why  had  she  married 
Rappallo?  Only  because,  like  so  many  other  young 
girls,  she  did  not  know  herself,  and  had  followed  the  sud- 
den and  subtle  promptings  of  an  excited  moment  instead 
of  the  calm  guidance  that  she  might  have  derived  from  a 
contemplation  of  the  faithful  years.  And  he  found  that 
he  was  faithful  to  her  still;  there  was  no  one  else  in  all 
the  world  who  could  have  such  power  of  enchantment 
over  him.  Every  evening  she  had  to  dismiss  him,  he 
lingered  so  abidingly.  "Now  you  must  say  good-night; 
I  must  get  at  my  letters."  And  then  she  would  add,  "  But 
do  come  early  to-morrow,  so  that  we  can  have  a  good 
long  day  together."  She  was  always  gay  and  high- 
spirited;  vapors  fled  before  her  sunny  laughter:  "Play 
with  me  and  I  'm  happy ;  play  with  me  and  be  happy," 
said  her  merry  cordial  eyes.  She  fascinated  and  en- 
[  101  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

chanted  and  inflamed  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she 
had  gladly  forgotten  all  about  her  husband,  was  packing 
the  days  as  full  as  possible  in  order  the  more  completely 
to  forget. 

The  day  of  their  excursion  to  Chantilly,  the  fifth  day 
of  their  week,  a  telegram  was  put  into  George's  hand  as 
he  was  leaving  his  hotel.  It  conveyed  Dr.  Armazet's  an- 
nouncement that  he  would  be  unable  to  hold  the  position 
open  for  Dr.  Brandon. 

George  reddened  as  if  he  had  been  struck  across  the 
eyes.  Mad  rebellion  flamed  in  him.  The  gate  to  an  hon- 
orable career  was  closed;  he  was  cut  off  from  his  oppor- 
tunity to  lead  a  life  of  usefulness — but  there  was  one  per- 
son whom  he  still  might  live  to  serve.  Let  her  but  turn 
rebel  with  him;  she  loved  him  now;  let  her  but  take  the 
step;  was  not  love  that,  looking  before  leaping,  still  chose 
to  leap,  the  noblest,  greatest  love?  How  they  could  cher- 
ish each  other  for  such  glorious  defiance!  They  need 
never  return  to  America;  in  Europe  they  could  be  suffi- 
cient to  themselves.  He  cast  the  fragments  of  Dr.  Ar- 
mazet's message  over  the  parapet  of  the  bridge  to  float 
away  down  the  Seine. 

Passing  up  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  he  glanced  at  the  jewel- 
ers' windows  with  an  aroused  interest.  What  a  pleasure 
to  bestow  decorations  on  Rosamond,  to  have  her  receive 
them  from  his  hand !  A  heart-shaped  aquamarine  pend- 
ant took  his  eye;  if  ever  he  might  give  her  presents,  that 
should  be  the  first;  he  could  see  it  lying  cool  against  the 
soft  whiteness  of  her  neck.  He  entered  the  shop  and 
asked  the  price  of  it;  he  examined  it  and  put  it  down 
reluctantly.  Of  course  she  would  not  accept  jewelry 
[  102  ] 


THE  WOMEN   WE  MARRY 

from  him.  But  no  sooner  was  he  outside  the  shop  than 
he  was  again  possessed  with  the  desire  to  offer  her  this 
tribute. 

Looking  at  his  watch,  he  decided  that  he  had  just 
time;  he  drove  to  his  banker's.  When  he  arrived  at 
Rosamond's  hotel  five  minutes  later  than  the  appointed 
hour,  the  pendant  was  in  his  pocket,  and  his  heart  was 
beating  spiritedly. 

She  came  down  to  him,  smiling  and  gay  in  her  blue 
linen  suit  and  hat  bright  with  nodding  cornflowers. 
"  What  a  fine  spree  we  '11  have ! "  she  said.  "  I  feel  excited 
at  going  to  a  new  place  —  a  regular  journey ! " 

"I  feel  excited,  too,"  he  replied  boldly.  "This  week 
is  making  me  appreciate  more  than  ever  what  a  honey- 
moon with  you  might  have  been." 

"Ah,  then  we  have  been  much  too  nice  to  each  other!" 
she  said.  "  But  let 's  not  cloud  the  day  with  any  unhappy 
thoughts." 

He  saw  that  he  had  alarmed  her,  put  her  on  her  guard; 
his  stupidity  and  her  quickness  to  take  the  defensive 
alike  galled  him.  And  in  that  condition  of  mind,  the  dis- 
appointment that  he  had  just  sustained  through  Dr. 
Armazet's  cable  asserted  itself  more  keenly;  he  could  not 
long  pretend  to  himself  that  he  did  not  care.  Soreness 
at  the  loss  of  the  opportunity  that  had  made  him,  until 
this  unlucky  week,  cheerful  and  happy,  grew  and  spread 
within  him  during  the  journey  to  Chantilly;  he  sat  silent, 
dwelling  on  his  folly  and  his  fate;  he  exerted  himself  but 
little  to  entertain  his  companion.  And  she  had  brought 
this  disaster  on  him,  quite  wantonly;  but  she  should  never 
know. 

[     103    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"You're  not  being  very  nice  to  me  this  morning, 
George." 

"I  thought  from  what  you  said  some  time  ago  that  you 
did  n't  want  me  to  be." 

"But  I  do,  really.  I  love  it." 

"That  means  you  love  me." 

"Oh!"  She  shrank  back  into  the  corner  of  her  seat 
and  looked  at  him  with  startled  eyes.  "Have  I  done 
anything  that  gives  you  an  excuse  to  say  that?" 

"My  dear  Rosamond,  why  should  I  not  say  it?  There 
were  times  before  you  were  married  when  I  felt  that  you 
really  loved  me  a  little,  even  though  you  persistently 
denied  it  —  times  when  I  knew  that  if  you  would  only 
give  yourself  to  me  you  would  soon  love  me  with  all 
your  heart.  Now  you  have  had  your  experience  of 
marriage  with  another  man  —  and  you  love  me  now 
more  than  you  ever  did  before!" 

"No,  no!"  she  cried  desperately.  "I  don't,  I'm  sure 
I  don't!  And  —  and  you  mustn't  put  such  ideas  into 
my  head;  it's  wrong  of  you  to  talk  to  me  so." 

Shrinking  in  her  corner  she  looked  at  him  frightened 
and  appealing.  His  chivalry  was  touched. 

"It  would  be  if  I  did  n't  believe  that  I  could  offer  you 
greater  happiness,"  he  said. 

"You  are  inviting  me  to  desert  my  husband!" 

"Who  seems  already  to  have  deserted  you!" 

"He  had  left  me  with  friends;  I  urged  him  to  go.  You 
misunderstand  very  much,  George,  if  you  think  my  hus- 
band is  unkind  to  me." 

"Not  unkind,  no.  But  his  love  for  you  was  n't  the  real 
thing,  any  more  than  your  love  for  him.  And  now  you 
[  104  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

both  realize  it.  He 's  glad  to  get  away,  you  're  both  glad 
and  hurt  to  be  left.  And  you  've  made  me  feel  that  you  Ve 
had  more  companionship  with  me  in  the  five  days  I  Ve 
been  here  than  you  've  had  with  your  husband  in  your 
whole  honeymoon." 

"  It 's  easier  to  be  companionable  with  a  person  for  five 
days  than  for  two  months.  Especially  when  you're  not 
seeing  anybody  else  at  all.  Two  months  from  now  I'm 
sure  that  you  and  I  should  each  of  us  be  glad  of  a  little 
vacation." 

"Then  you  tell  me  that  I'm  quite  mistaken,  and  that 
you  are  as  a  matter  of  fact  entirely  devoted  to  your  hus- 
band and  care  nothing  about  me?  " 

"That's  the  way  I  mean  it  to  be,"  she  answered 
firmly. 

"We  mean  so  many  things  that  we  can't  bring  to  pass! 
I  meant  to  put  you  out  of  my  life  entirely  —  and  here  I 
am  suggesting  that  you  remodel  it  for  me!  You  meant 
to  adore  your  husband  with  an  increasing  devotion  — 
and  two  months  after  marriage  you  are  tired  of  him, 
bored  by  him,  annoyed  with  him  —  and  he  is  reveling  in 
an  opportunity  to  escape  from  you!  No,  I  can't  see  it, 
Rosamond.  That  romance  is  played  out,  never  to  be 
revived;  you  have  the  husk  of  it  left,  the  memory  to  con- 
trast with  the  reality  and  to  make  each  day  more  bitter 
than  the  last  —  a  chafing  toleration  for  each  other  at 
best  instead  of  freer  confidence  and  quicker  understand- 
ing. You  and  he  for  life  on  opposite  sides  of  the  table, 
or  you  and  I  for  life  there : —  if  you  could  make  the  choice 
now,  Rosamond,  which  should  you  choose?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "Sometimes  I  should 
[  105  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

like  one  and  sometimes  the  other.  I'm  two  persons,  I 
think.  And  that's  all  I  want  to  say  about  this  subject. 
You  make  me  feel  very  disloyal  to  Graham,  when  I'm 
not  really.  I  don't  like  you  so  well  when  you  try  to  dis- 
parage him.  I  'm  very  glad  I  'm  married  to  him  —  very 
glad,  indeed.  And  I  wish  I  were  with  him  now." 

She  no  longer  was  shrinking  back  in  her  corner.  She 
sat  up  straight  and  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  a  little 
spot  of  angry  color  glowed  on  each  cheek. 

"Yes,"  said  George.  "And  when  you  are  with  him  and 
I  am  somewhere  else,  you  will  be  wishing  that  you  were 
with  me.  And  wherever  I  am,  I  shall  be  wishing  that  — 
more  than  you  can  ever  do." 

The  sincerity  of  the  speech  softened  her.  She  turned 
to  him  and  said,  "I've  made  you  unhappy,  George,  and 
I  'm  sorry.  I  think  of  all  those  pleasant  days  when  you 
were  courting  me  —  how  sweet  they  were!  I  feel  that 
something  should  have  come  from  them  —  I  feel  almost 
guilty  because  I  did  n't  marry  you.  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  when  I  think  of  Graham's  courting,  I  know  that  I 
could  n't  have  done  otherwise  than  I  did.  There  is  asso- 
ciated with  that  a  holiness  that  is  simply  inexpressible. 
It  is  the  thing  that  makes  me  wonder  how  any  woman 
can  ever  marry  more  than  once." 

"You  would  sacrifice  your  whole  life  on  the  altar  of 
a  memory!" 

"If  it  were  necessary.  But  you  don't  understand, 
George.  I  love  Graham.  I  can't  help  loving  you,  too,  — 
a  little, — but  I  love  Graham.  You  must  n't  lose  sight  of 
that." 

George  looked  at  her  steadily.  "And  these  last  days 
[    106    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

have  made  me  perfectly  sure  that  you  love  me.  You  may 
not  be  ready  to  admit  it  now;  but  you  will  know  it  when 
I  am  gone  and  you  are  once  more  with  Graham." 

She  did  not  make  a  reply.    The  train  drew  into  Chan- 
tilly. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   END   OF  AN  EXCURSION 

THE  Pelouse  that  morning  presented  a  lively  appear- 
ance. It  was  only  two  weeks  before  the  autumn 
races;  the  jockeys  in  their  colors  were  exercising  the 
horses;  the  men  and  women  of  the  English  colony  sat  in 
the  grand  stand  or  strolled  upon  the  oval.  There  was  an 
air  of  serious,  even  momentous  preparation  and  of  ob- 
servant scrutiny;  if  a  groom  ran  his  hand  down  over  a 
horse's  leg  or  if  a  rider  stroked  his  beast's  mane,  the  act 
seemed  neither  casual  nor  affectionate,  but  an  item  in  the 
formula  of  training. 

Rosamond  and  George  paused  on  their  way  to  the 
chateau  and  looked  on  at  the  proceedings. 

"I  wish  Graham  might  ride  in  the  races,"  said  Rosa- 
mond, as  they  moved  away.  "That  is  what  I  should  like 
to  see.  He  rides  better  than  anyone  else  that  I  ever 
saw." 

"I  have  heard  that  it  was  his  appearance  on  horseback 
that  first  captivated  you,"  remarked  George. 

"Gossip  was  accurate  for  once.  The  first  time  I  saw 
him  was  at  a  rough-riding  drill.  Grace,  gallantry,  daring, 
control  —  was  it  any  wonder  if  a  girl  noticed  him?  " 

"There  is  no  doubt  that  he  is  a  good  horseman." 

They  walked  on  in  a  stiff  silence.  George  smarted 
under  a  sense  of  rebuff.  He  felt  that  she  was  trying  to 
keep  alive  a  sentiment  for  her  husband  by  unfair  means. 
[  108  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

To  dwell  on  those  intoxicating  moments  of  first  love  was 
to  deny  reason  a  hearing. 

But  George  could  not  long  be  sullen,  least  of  all  in 
Rosamond's  company  and  in  such  surroundings.  No 
sooner  had  they  passed  through  the  great  gate  of  the 
castle  grounds  than  his  spirits  began  to  assert  themselves 
buoyantly.  His  lively  comments  in  the  picture  gallery 
drew  from  her  replies  of  an  equal  gayety;  his  enthusiasm 
and  his  prejudices  made  him  a  good  companion.  What 
was  especially  pleasant  to  Rosamond  was  his  leisureli- 
ness;  he  seemed  not  in  a  hurry  to  proceed  from  one  room 
to  another;  even  more  than  she  he  seemed  to  linger 
before  the  old  canvases,  and  lingering  to  receive  impres- 
sions. And  now  she  found  that  what  she  had  once  con- 
demned in  him  as  a  tendency  towards  irresponsible  and 
feminine  dawdling  was  an  interesting  and  attractive 
characteristic. 

"  You  are  a  good  person  to  go  through  a  museum  with," 
she  said. 

"And  you  are  a  good  person  to  go  anywhere  with,"  he 
replied. 

Such  remarks  as  that  pleased  her.  So,  watching  her, 
he  continued,  "There's  no  doubt  about  it;  if  you  are  n't 
bored  or  annoyed  by  a  person  hi  a  picture  gallery,  you 
probably  won't  be  bored  or  annoyed  by  him  anywhere 
else.  And  conversely.  The  dismayed  couples  who  have 
arrived  at  an  understanding  of  each  other  in  the  picture 
galleries  of  Europe!  Haven't  you  seen  them?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Rosamond  answered.  "I've  seen  them." 
("  Seen  them ! "  thought  George  to  himself,  underscoring 
the  verb.)  "But,"  she  went  on  after  a  moment,  "it's 
[  109  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

easy  to  imagine  too  much.  People  who  get  married  usu- 
ally do  it  on  some  basis  of  knowledge  of  each  other. 
Probably  unpleasant  little  surprises  do  occur;  but  if 
they  're  sensible  they  fall  back  on  what  drew  them  to- 
gether in  the  first  place;  they're  very  foolish  if  they  let 
small  differences  in  taste  drive  them  apart." 

"It  is  n't  always  a  matter  of  letting  themselves  be 
driven  apart.  Sometimes  it's  a  matter  of  pretending 
that  they  have  n't  been  when  they  know  they  have. 
And  it's  always  a  question  whether  it's  worth  any- 
body's while  to  lead  a  life  of  pretense." 

They  proceeded  through  the  gallery  rather  soberly. 
George  felt  that  he  had  made  an  impression  upon  her; 
in  her  eyes  he  caught  the  troubled  look  of  uncertainty. 
He  asked  himself  if  he  were  playing  the  part  of  a  cad;  it 
was  a  perplexing  question.  The  seduction  of  a  woman 
had  always  seemed  to  him  the  basest  of  all  a  gentle- 
man's amusements;  could  it  be  that  he  was  now  engaged 
in  an  attempt  to  practice  it?  No,  for  what  made  se- 
duction base  was  the  levity,  the  inconstancy,  the  cold- 
hearted  selfishness  associated  with  it,  and  he  was  guilty 
of  none  of  those  vices.  If  Rosamond  had  been  happy 
with  her  husband,  he  would  never  have  tried  to  detach 
her.  Since  she  was  not  happy,  was  it  not  right  that  he 
who  loved  her  should  try  to  make  her  happy?  And  for 
happiness  a  woman's  first  requirement  was  to  be  loved. 
But  could  that  compensate  her  for  the  possible  loss  of 
friends,  for  the  grief  and  mortification  of  her  family,  foS 
her  disgrace  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  for  expatriation 
and  isolation?  With  such  odds  against  him,  how  could 
he  hope  to  bestow  happiness  upon  her?  And  if  he  could 
I  HO  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

not  hope  to  do  that  and  yet  strove  to  win  her  away 
from  her  husband,  was  he  not,  indeed,  an  execrable 
cad? 

The  question  impaled  him,  but  he  wriggled  himself 
free  from  it.  Whatever  course  he  followed,  unhappi- 
ness  for  her,  so  long  as  she  remained  united  with  her 
husband,  was  inevitable.  Rappallo  neglected  her,  and 
she  was  not  a  woman  who  could  endure  neglect.  There 
would  in  time  be  separation,  humiliation,  and  probably 
divorce.  She  would  be  a  woman  disillusioned  and  em- 
bittered —  all  the  more  if  the  man  who  might  have 
saved  her  chose  instead  the  part  of  conventional  and 
cowardly  virtue. 

And  the  thing  could  be  managed.  A  high-spirited 
girl,  abandoned  by  her  husband  on  their  honeymoon, 
would  not  be  without  sympathy  and  support  if  she  de- 
clined to  return  to  him.  Divorce  would  follow;  then  the 
true  lover  could  claim  his  own. 

The  thoughts  formulated  themselves  slowly  in  the 
intervals  between  comments  on  pictures,  exclamations 
over  gems.  When  George  saw  Rosamond  poring  with 
such  interest  and  delight  over  the  jewelry  of  the  Condes, 
he  bethought  him  hopefully  of  the  small  case  in  his 
pocket.  He  felt  that  she  would  be  pleased;  he  had  a 
desire  always  to  please  her. 

They  drove  back  to  the  hotel  opposite  the  race-course 
for  luncheon.  There  was  some  discussion  about  the 
train  they  should  take  returning  to  Paris.  There  was 
one  at  three  o'clock,  another  at  five,  and  another  at  nine. 
George  rejected  the  idea  of  taking  one  of  the  earlier 
trains.  He  proposed  that  they  drive  about  the  country, 
[  HI  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

go  to  Senlis  and  see  the  Cathedral,  and  take  the  even- 
ing train  from  there. 

"But  it  gets  to  Paris  so  late,"  protested  Rosamond. 

"Well,  why  not?  "  Then  he  drew  out  his  little  packet 
and  laid  it  on  the  table.  "I  bought  you  a  wedding 
present  this  morning;  here  it  is." 

"Oh,  George,  you  did  n't!  How  nice  you  are  to  me!" 
She  drew  the  packet  towards  her  and  looked  at  him 
with  sparkling  eyes.  "What  can  it  be?  I  can't  guess. 
Shall  I  open  it  now  —  right  now?" 

"As  you  please,"  said  George;  "it's  nothing  very 
exciting." 

She  delayed  about  opening  it,  tantalizing  herself  with 
guesses.  They  were  all  tactfully  modest  guesses;  George 
smiled  benignantly. 

"Then  it's  a  little  enamel  box,"  she  declared  with  an 
air  of  assurance.  "One  of  those  sweet  little  things  with 
Cupids  on  the  cover.  Or  else  it 's  —  no,  I  can't  guess 
what  it  is;  I  must  open  it  at  once." 

When  the  aquamarine  lay  revealed,  she  gave  an  ex- 
clamation of  delight,  and  then  immediately  one  of  un- 
certainty. "How  lovely!  How  perfectly  lovely!  But, 
oh,  George!  I  —  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  accept  such  a 
wonderful  gift  —  do  you?" 

"I  should  n't  have  given  it  if  I  had  thought  that." 

"You  were  so  sweet  to  get  it  for  me.  And  it's  beau- 
tiful; it's  enchanting.  But  jewelry  —  I  don't  feel  as  if  I 
ought  —  Graham  might  feel  —  please  forgive  me,  but 
it's  almost  too  personal  a  kind  of  present;  isn't  it, 
George?" 

"That's  exactly  why  I  got  it.  I  wanted  to  give  you 
1  112  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

something  for  yourself  —  something  that  could  n't  pos- 
sibly be  for  Graham,  too." 

"How  lovely  it  is!"  She  held  it  so  that  a  ray  of  sun- 
light fell  on  it  through  the  window;  she  placed  it  against 
her  bosom  and  looked  down  at  it  with  captivated  eyes. 
"I  wish  Graham  were  n't  so  conventional.  I  know  he'll 
think  I  ought  n't  to  accept  such  a  gift  from  any  man  but 
himself." 

"The  tyranny  of  Graham!"  said  George. 

"He  really  won't  object  when  he  finds  it  gives  me 
pleasure."  She  slipped  the  chain  round  her  neck  and 
fastened  it,  and  caressed  the  stone  with  her  fingers. 

And  soon  it  was  settled  that  they  should  not  take 
either  the  three  o'clock  or  the  five  o'clock  train  back  to 
Paris,  but  that  they  should  drive  to  Senlis. 

Rosamond  was  still  too  excited  about  her  new  posses- 
sion to  be  much  interested  in  anything  else.  During  the 
drive  she  toyed  with  it  and  smiled  on  it,  caught  the 
light  with  it  and  exclaimed  with  pleasure  over  it.  George 
remembered  that  whenever  in  the  past  he  had  made  her 
little  presents  of  flowers  her  delight  had  been  similarly 
expressive  and  encouraging.  And  there  was  no  insincer- 
ity about  it;  she  was  absorbed  in  pleased  contemplation 
and  in  happy  gratitude.  That  she  was  in  such  simple 
ways  so  unspoiled  a  child  touched  George;  indeed,  her 
blithe  immaturity  was  to  him  not  only  appealing  but 
enchanting.  It  made  him  the  more  eager  to  tempt  her, 
even  while  he  knew  that  it  made  his  responsibility  the 
greater. 

"You  flatter  me,  seeming  to  like  my  little  present," 
he  said,  laughing  as  she  fondled  it. 
[    113    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"I  love  it.  I've  always  wanted  just  such  a  large 
beautiful  aquamarine.  Graham  does  n't  care  much 
about  stones  or  jewelry,"  she  added  somewhat  wistfully. 

"Rosamond,"  said  George  suddenly,  "listen.  Give 
me  your  hand  a  moment  —  just  a  moment;  don't  be 
reluctant  —  there.  Do  you  remember  how  you  let  me 
take  it  during  the  thunderstorm?  You  turned  to  me 
then  as  if  for  protection;  you  don't  know  what  a  sweet, 
uplifted  feeling  that  gave  me.  You  don't  know  how 
lovingly  the  sensation  of  this  little  hand  lying  in  mine 
has  lingered  in  my  memory,  how  much  it  means  to  me 
that  once  it  lay  in  mine.  Without  you,  nothing  seems 
worth  striving  for;  with  you,  it  would  be  such  happi- 
ness to  work!" 

"But,  George,  you  mustn't  talk  like  this."  She 
pulled  her  hand  away  resolutely.  "You  must  face 
facts,  and  be  a  man." 

"Because  I  am  a  man  and  love  you,  I  say  this.  You 
know  I  love  you  as  no  other  man  ever  did  or  does  or  can. 
And  you  have  made  me  feel  in  this  past  week  that  you 
love  me.  Have  you  the  courage  to  face  that  fact?  " 

"I  must  deny  that  it  is  a  fact." 

"It  will,  of  course,  be  the  last  thing  that  your  lips  will 
acknowledge.  But  do  actions  have  no  meaning?  " 

"What  actions  of  mine  could  be  so  misconstrued?" 

"All  of  them  —  since  the  day  we  met  by  the  Institut. 
You  've  been  as  dependent  on  seeing  me,  on  being  with 
me,  in  these  days,  as  I  have  been  dependent  on  being 
with  you.  If  it  were  not  so,  you  would  hardly  have 
urged  me  to  stay  at  the  risk  of  losing  my  appoint- 
ment— " 

[    114    1 


"You  did  not  give  me  to  understand  that  there  was 
any  risk,"  she  said  sharply;  and  he  bit  his  lip  at  the 
indiscretion  into  which  his  excitement  had  hurried  him. 
She  looked  at  him  gravely  for  a  moment  and  then  asked, 
"Do  you  mean  that  you  have  lost  your  appointment?" 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  catch  me  up  so!"  he  protested 
laughingly ;  but  he  did  not  dare  to  attempt  equivocation 
under  her  steady  eyes.  "Well,  yes,"  he  acknowledged, 
"  I  have  lost  it.  But  that  does  n't  make  any  difference 
really."  He  was  alarmed  by  the  expression  of  shock 
and  suffering  on  her  face.  "There  are  plenty  of  ap- 
pointments everywhere  for  a  man  who  —  why,  in  Paris 
for  instance;  the  American  doctors  in  Paris  —  there's 
no  better  opening  for  a  man  of  the  right  sort.  We  could 
live  in  Paris,  Rosamond,  and  — " 

"Oh,  you  make  me  ashamed!"  she  cried  under  her 
breath.  "Stop!" 

His  cheeks  flamed  as  red  as  hers. 

In  front  the  driver,  who  understood  no  English, 
turned  and  besought  their  admiration  of  the  arched 
viaduct  over  the  Nonette,  now  rising  into  view.  The 
unresponsiveness  of  his  passengers  caused  him  to  settle 
back  in  his  seat  stolidly.  Monsieur  and  Madame  were 
having  a  quarrel;  ah,  well,  thank  the  good  God,  a  quarrel 
with  his  wife  seldom  affected  an  American's  liberality. 

"I  see  it  all  now,"  Rosamond  said  coldly.  "When 
you  had  lost  your  own  future,  then  you  decided  that  you 
would  also  try  to  sacrifice  me." 

"Rosamond!"  he  cried  in  reproach.  "To  make  such 
a  charge  as  that  —  against  me  who  have  loved  you  for 
so  long!" 

[     115    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Yet  her  words  caused  him  deep  humiliation,  for  he 
knew  in  his  heart  that  they  were  a  bitter  statement  of 
the  truth. 

"I  have  injured  you,  and  you  have  revenged  yourself 
upon  me,"  continued  Rosamond  implacably.  She 
leaned  forward  and  addressed  the  driver,  bidding  him 
turn  back  to  Chantilly. 

He  obeyed  the  order  in  surprise;  meanwhile  George 
took  out  his  watch. 

"It  is  of  no  use,"  he  suggested  mildly.  "You  see  — 
already  we  have  lost  the  train.  We  might  as  well  go  on 
to  Senlis;  we  can  get  no  earlier  train." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  she  said.   "But  this  is  intolerable." 

George  leaned  forward  and  told  the  driver  to  turn 
back  to  Senlis.  He  obeyed  impassively;  eh,  but  this  was 
a  quarrel,  indeed !  Would  Monsieur  and  Madame  keep 
him  turning  about  and  about  in  the  middle  of  the 
road? 

"  It  is  not  like  you  to  be  unfair  to  any  one,  Rosamond," 
said  George.  "  I  have  loved  you  long  and  faithfully,  and 
I  claim  the  right  to  be  heard.  You  dismissed  me  again 
and  again  in  my  courtship,  yet  each  time,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  with  a  decreasing  assurance.  And  so,  when  you 
sent  me  away  last  winter,  I  entertained  the  hope  that  I 
would  return  to  find  you  had  at  last  realized  that  I  was 
as  indispensable  to  your  happiness  as  you  were  to  mine. 
Instead  of  that  you  took  advantage  of  my  absence  to 
imagine  yourself  suddenly,  violently,  impetuously  in 
love  with  a  sudden,  violent,  and  impetuous  suitor.  The 
friendship  and  the  courtship  of  years  could  not;  stand 
beside  the  romance  of  a  month;  love  should  be  exciting, 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

marriage  should  be  dramatic  —  and  so  I  came  home  just 
in  time  to  see  you  married.  Now,  three  months  later, 
we  meet,  and  I  learn  certain  things.  The  romance  of  a 
month  is  over,  and  you  are  experiencing  the  chagrin  of 
the  greatest  mistake  that  man  or  woman  can  make;  you 
know  already  the  misery  of  a  mismating,  and  you  are 
facing  a  future  which  holds  no  romance  and  no  ideal- 
ism. And  your  husband  has  left  you  on  your  honey- 
moon in  order  to  pursue  undisturbed  his  singular  avoca- 
tion. From  that  fact  I  conclude  —  I  do  not  speak  with 
intentional  cruelty  —  that  his  marriage  is  exactly  as 
satisfactory  to  him  as  yours  is  to  you.  Only,  a  satisfac- 
tory and  happy  marriage  is  less  important  to  a  man  than 
to  a  woman;  your  husband's  selfishness  will  increase, 
and  his  cheerfulness  will  not  grow  perceptibly  less.  But 
a  woman  is  of  the  sex  that  sacrifices  and  suffers;  and  for 
a  man  whom  you  no  longer  love  you  will  perform  ser- 
vices that  are  no  longer  joy,  and  you  will  weep  in  secret 
and  smile  before  his  face.  Marriage  for  a  woman  is 
always  a  martyrdom,  but  it  may  be  a  martyrdom  that 
puts  the  light  of  heaven  always  hi  her  eyes,  or  one  that 
reveals  only  the  torture  of  her  soul.  Already  you  have 
betrayed  to  me  which  kind  you  are  enduring;  come  to 
me,  Rosamond,  and  God  help  me  —  sometimes  at  least 
the  light  of  heaven  shall  shine ! " 

"  Never.  Not  even  if  I  loved  you  with  my  whole  heart. 
The  thing  is  unthinkable." 

"I  confess,"  said  George,  "that  when  there  are  no 
children  I  cannot  regard  the  married  state  as  so  sacred 
—  so  inescapable  — " 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  escape  from  it.  Do  you  not  under- 
[    117    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

stand?  If  a  woman  cannot  go  to  a  man  with  joy,  she 
had  better  not  go  to  him  at  all." 

"And  you  are  very  sure,  Rosamond,  that  you  could 
never  come  to  me  joyfully  —  not  if  we  waited  apart,  you 
in  America,  I  in  Paris  —  ;  no,  let  me  put  it  this  way; 
suppose  that  when  at  last  you  were  free  and  I  went  joy- 
fully to  you,  would  you  not  welcome  me?" 

"George,"  she  said,  "I  will  not  allow  you  to  talk  any 
more  about  my  freeing  myself  from  my  husband.  I  real- 
ize that  I  have  done  very  wrong  in  showing  such  pleas- 
ure —  in  feeling  such  pleasure  —  in  your  society;  fortu- 
nately it  will  never  again  be  possible  for  me  to  commit 
this  wrong.  The  understanding  at  which  we  have  arrived 
this  afternoon  is  complete.  I  have  let  you  assume  that  I 
do  not  love  my  husband;  I  mean  to  atone  for  my  dis- 
loyalty. I  love  him  the  more  because  he  is  not  the  sort  of 
man  who  is  forever  wooing  my  love,  because  he  has 
wider  interests  and  grows  restless  in  inactivity.  And  I 
care  much  less  for  you  because  you  have  tried  to  take 
advantage  of  my  flightiness  and  my  folly,  instead  of 
protecting  me  against  my  foolish  self." 

"Your  foolish  self!  Your  real  self,  your  adorable  self, 
not  this  puritanical,  conventional,  hypocritical  self!" 

She  kept  a  disdainful  silence,  and  the  next  moment 
he  was  supplicating  her  again.  "Good  Heavens,  Rosa- 
mond, I  don't  mean  to  be  abusive.  Overlook  my  lan- 
guage —  for  the  sake  of  my  love!" 

But  to  his  whimsical  smile  which  she  usually  found 
attractive,  she  presented  an  uncompromising  visage. 

"Whatever  justification  you  may  have  had  for 
thinking  that  such  speeches  are  agreeable  to  me,  it 
[  H8  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

exists  no  longer.  It  must  be  clear  to  you  that  my  hus- 
band's love  is  the  only  love  that  I  desire  or  that  I  will 
accept." 

"Very  well,"  said  George,  "I  leave  Paris  in  the 
morning." 

The  matter  being  thus  settled,  they  drove  on  in  si- 
lence. By  the  time  that  they  reached  Senlis,  George  had 
apparently  regained  his  customary  spirits  and  his  eye 
for  happenings  along  the  road.  At  the  Cathedral  he  dis- 
missed the  carriage;  the  coachman  departed  rejoicing 
that  Monsieur  and  Madame  had  effected  a  reconcilia- 
tion. With  a  seemingly  unabated  interest  George  led 
Rosamond  from  point  to  point,  calling  on  her  to  admire 
the  tower  and  to  smile  at  the  ornamentations  of  the  por- 
tals, conducted  her  on  an  exploration  of  the  narrow, 
winding  streets  of  the  little  town,  and  showed  an  anti- 
quarian's zeal  in  discovering  ancient  Roman  and  early 
Merovingian  remains.  She  strove  not  to  be  behind  him 
in  spirit,  even  while  undecided  whether  to  admire  or 
despise  such  resiliency  as  he  displayed. 

They  dined  cheerfully  in  a  little  hotel,  and  took  the 
nine  o'clock  train  back  to  Paris.  George  had  become 
again  the  same  pleasant  companion  that  he  had  always 
been.  He  seemed  to  have  reentered  contentedly  the  old 
cage  of  good-fellowship  after  his  unsuccessful  effort  to 
reach  a  more  tempting  perch.  Only  when  they  were 
driving  up  to  Rosamond's  hotel  did  he  say,  — 

"This  ends  it  then,  Rosamond?" 

"Ends  what?"  she  asked  bluntly. 

"My  romance." 

"That  has  a  ring  of  sentimentality.  Come,  George, 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

take  me  into  the  hotel;  we'll  shake  hands  and  part — 
and  meet  again  —  friends." 

At  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  where  he  was  to  leave  her, 
they  encountered  Graham  Rappallo.  Instant  joyfulness 
swept  agitation  from  Graham's  countenance. 

"Thank  the  Lord,  Rosamond ! "  he  cried.  "  I  've  been 
frightfully  worried  about  you!"  He  nodded  to  George, 
and  continued,  "I  got  back  at  noon,  and  I've  simply 
been  watching  the  door  all  day.  I  found  I  could  n't  stay 
away  from  you  any  longer." 

"Oh,  poor  Graham!  Oh,  I  should  have  been  at  the 
station  to  meet  you!" 

George,  waiting  impatiently  to  take  his  departure, 
viewed  these  affectionate  greetings  with  cynical  eyes. 

"  I  never  should  have  stayed  away  if  I  had  known  you 
were  all  alone,"  proceeded  Graham.  "Why  did  n't  you 
tell  me  about  the  Vasmers?  I  found  a  telegram  for 
you  from  Dorothy  —  too  bad.  Her  father  died  last 
night." 

"Oh!"  Rosamond  cried  out  in  pain.  "And  I  should 
have  gone  to  her  at  once!  She  and  her  poor  mother  — 
all  alone!  Telegraph  now,  Graham,  —  say  that  we'll 
start  from  Paris  in  the  morning." 

Graham  hesitated.  "Are  you  sure  that  they'll  want 
us?  There  probably  won't  be  anything  we  can  do  — 

"I'm  going  to  London  in  the  morning,"  George  said. 
"I'll  telegraph  Miss  Vasmer  and  offer  my  services." 

"That's    first-rate,"     Graham    replied.   "Probably 

you  '11  find  all  arrangements  made,  but  it  will  no  doubt 

be  a  comfort  to  them  to  feel  that  you  are  at  hand  ready 

to  help.  Under  the  circumstances,  since  Dr.  Brandon 

[    120    ] 


will  be  there,  I  don't  think  you  need  feel  that  you  must 
go,  Rosamond." 

"But  I  do  feel  it!"  Rosamond  exclaimed,  distress 
sharpening  her  voice.  "  I  will  telegraph  to  her  now;  and, 
Graham,  you  arrange  about  our  starting  first  thing  in 
the  morning." 

"Very  likely,  then,  I  shall  see  you  again,"  said 
George.  "If  not,  good-bye." 

"Good-bye."  She  took  his  hand  for  a  moment,  yet 
hardly  glanced  at  him.  "Oh,  poor  Dorothy!" 

She  moved  away  to  send  her  telegram,  her  husband 
went  to  make  inquiries  about  trains,  and  George,  in  a 
somewhat  bitter  and  disillusioned  frame  of  mind,  passed 
out  into  the  street. 

"She  does  n't  really  care  for  her  husband,  that's  cer- 
tain," he  thought.  "And  she  does  n't  seem  to  care  for 
me.  I  believe  the  only  affection  she's  capable  of  is  for 
persons  of  her  own  sex." 

But  he  did  not  really  believe  it;  he  found  that  in  his 
heart  he  could  not  disparage  her,  however  much  he 
tried. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  AQUAMARINE  PENDANT 

WHEN  Graham  came  up  to  his  room  after  making 
the  desired  inquiries,  he  found  Rosamond  al- 
ready preparing  for  departure.  Excitement  and  agita- 
tion had  aggravated  a  certain  native  disorderliness; 
trunk-trays  and  open  bags  lay  scattered  about  the  floor, 
clothes  were  strewn  upon  the  beds  and  heaped  upon 
sofa  and  chairs,  and  Rosamond  moved  about,  snatch- 
ing and  tossing  with  a  rapid  hand. 

"I  telegraphed  we  would  come  by  the  first  train  in 
the  morning,"  she  said.  "When  is  it,  Graham?" 

"Seven  o'clock;  we'll  arrive  in  London  at  five. 
There's  another  at  nine  that  will  get  us  in  only  a  few 
hours  later;  we'd  better  take  that  — " 

"No,  no.  I  feel  that  I  must  get  to  Dorothy  at  the 
first  possible  moment." 

Graham  had  been  in  the  saddle  for  two  nights.  He 
did  not  mention  this,  but  he  felt  aggrieved,  rebellious. 
The  proceeding  seemed  to  him  thoroughly  irrational 
and  unnecessary. 

"Really,"  he  said,  "I  don't  see  the  need  of  such  haste. 
We  shall  have  to  be  up  half  the  night  packing;  much 
better  to  do  the  thing  at  leisure  and  take  the  nine  o'clock 
train." 

"You've  been  away,  Graham,  pursuing  your  own 
pleasure;  it  seems  to  me  that  you  might  do  this  first 
[  122  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

thing  that  I  ask.  If  you  can't  understand  why  I  feel 
that  I  must  get  to  Dorothy  at  once  — 

"Oh,  all  right,  my  dear;  since  you  've  so  set  your  heart 
on  it—  " 

Graham,  with  a  pretence  at  cheerfulness,  began  to 
pack.  He  passed  and  repassed  close  beside  Rosamond; 
she  seemed  more  than  ordinarily  unconscious  of  his 
presence,  indifferent  to  it.  In  reality  she  was  wishing 
that  he  would  stoop  and  kiss  her,  ever  so  casually,  as  he 
passed.  When  he  failed  to  do  this,  she  thought  bitterly 
that  not  so  long  ago  he  could  not  resist  bestowing  on  her 
such  tokens  of  affection.  She  was  aware  that  she  had 
turned  her  cheek  invitingly  and  that  he  had  ignored  the 
opportunity.  The  privilege  that  he  had  won,  he  no 
longer  prized;  doubtless  it  was  the  way  with  men. 
Doubtless  it  would  have  been  so  with  George.  Yet  she 
must  be  fair  to  George.  He  had  been  faithful  and  con- 
stant year  in,  year  out,  through  all  rebuffs  and  disap- 
pointments. And  Graham's  capacity  for  loyalty  she 
had  never  tested;  she  had  given  herself  too  readily  into 
his  hands.  Whether  or  not  there  was  some  partial  elec- 
trical communication  of  her  thoughts,  Graham  sud- 
denly turned  from  the  trunk  that  he  had  been  filling, 
stepped  quickly  to  her  side,  and  gave  her  the  kiss  that 
she  had  craved-  She  pleased  him,  even  startled  him,  by 
her  sudden  quick,  responsive  hug  and  her  cry,  "Oh, 
Graham,  you  love  me,  dear,  you  do  love  me!" 

"Of  course  I  do!"  He  kissed  her  again.   "I  should 
have  come  to  you  at  once  —  I  should  n't  have  left  you 
alone  an  hour,  if  I  had  known.  Poor  little  girl!  How 
long  have  you  been  here  all  alone?" 
[    123    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"I  haven't  been  alone  very  much,  Graham.  I  met 
George  Brandon,  and  he  and  I  kept  each  other  from 
being  lonely." 

"Well,  I'm  very  grateful  to  Brandon  for  turning  up 
and  entertaining  you  to-day.  I  suppose  it  was  yester- 
day that  Mrs.  Vasmer  and  Dorothy  were  called  to  Lon- 
don?" 

"No."  Rosamond  was  acutely  miserable;  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  tell  the  truth.  "The  Vasmers  went 
away  the  same  day  you  did." 

"The  same  day !  Then  you  've  been  alone  here  all  this 
time,  and  never  let  me  know!" 

She  could  not  be  sure  whether  amazement  or  disap- 
proval were  uppermost  in  his  thought. 

"I  felt  that  it  was  n't  necessary.  I  knew  how  much 
you  wanted  to  see  the  maneuvers." 

"But  your  letters  —  you  wrote  'we'  — " 

"It  was  to  keep  you  from  suspecting  and  rushing 
back  to  me — " 

"You  made  all  those  expeditions  by  yourself?" 

"No;  George  Brandon  accompanied  me." 

"Oh!  Then  'we'  meant  you  and  George  Brandon, 
though  I  would  naturally  think  it  referred  to  you  and 
the  Vasmers?" 

"Yes.  You  see,  Graham,  I  felt  there  was  no  need  of 
your  cutting  short  your  trip  — " 

"I  never  would  have  believed  that  you  would  deceive 
me."  He  stood  away  and  looked  at  her  with  cold  and 
doubting  eyes;  she  shrank  from  this  new,  undreamed-of 
expression  on  his  face.  "Was  it  entirely  consideration 
for  me  that  kept  you  from  telling  the  truth?  " 
[  124  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"No,  not  entirely,"  she  said,  driven  to  desperation. 
"It  was  something  to  feel  free  again  —  free  as  I  was  be- 
fore I  was  married." 

"Was  it  prearranged  between  you  and  Brandon  that 
you  should  meet  him  here  in  Paris?" 

"No.  It  was  a  chance  meeting.  I  felt  there  was  no 
harm  in  our  going  about  together." 

"In  short,  you  were  enjoying  my  absence  so  well  that 
you  were  in  no  hurry  to  have  me  return." 

"Indeed,  I  was  very,  very  glad  to  see  you  to-night, 
Graham." 

Her  head  drooped,  she  felt  incapable  of  resistance  or 
resentment,  she  was  very  tired.  To  be  assailed  in  this 
manner,  after  withstanding  argument,  entreaty,  emo- 
tion, all  day,  was  more  than  she  could  bear.  She  felt 
willing  to  say  anything  if  only  she  could  be  released  from 
this  inquisition.  Her  hand  unconsciously  sought  the 
blue  stone  lying  against  her  breast.  Her  husband's  eyes, 
following  the  movement,  were  arrested  by  the  object. 

"That  pendant,"  he  said.  "I  don't  remember  seeing 
that  before.  Is  it  something  new?  " 

"  George  Brandon  gave  it  to  me  to-day.  It  is  his  wed- 
ding present  to  me." 

"I  don't  like  his  taste  in  wedding  presents." 

She  took  off  the  stone  and  tossed  it  on  the  bed.  "Very 
well.  I  will  return  it  to  him." 

Her  submissiveness  and  her  evident  weariness  touched 
Graham.  He  came  to  her,  put  his  arm  round  her,  and 
said  gently,  "Dearest,  I  don't  mean  to  be  harsh.  We 
are  both  tired;  I  have  hardly  slept  for  two  nights,  and 
you  look  as  if  you  had  not.  Our  nerves  are  plucking  at 
I  125  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

us;  we  must  n't  go  on  like  this.  We  must  sleep.  In  the 
morning,  dearest,  we  — well,  we  will  make  a  fresh  start." 

He  kissed  her;  she  burst  into  tears;  he  stood  with  his 
arms  embracing  her,  vainly  trying  to  soothe  her. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  cry,"  she  sobbed.  "I'm  un- 
happy when  you're  away,  Graham,  and  I'm  unhappy 
when  you're  here.  Perhaps  I  ought  never  to  have  mar- 
ried you  —  oh,  I  wonder  why,  why  we  were  in  such 
haste!  We  were  n't  suited  to  each  other  —  and  George 
Brandon  —  oh,  I  know  I  loved  him  all  along  —  and 
why,  why  did  you  ever  come  to  take  me  from  him ! " 

She  tore  herself  from  his  arms  and  flung  herself  face 
down  upon  the  bed. 

To  Graham,  looking  down  at  her  quivering  shoulders, 
glancing  from  them  to  the  disordered  array  of  clothes 
strewn  about  the  room,  the  spectacle  was  for  the  mo- 
ment exasperating.  "Why,  indeed!"  was  ready  to  take 
wing  from  his  lips,  and  be  wafted  upwards  by  wildly 
tossed  arms.  But  he  held  himself  tense  and  silent,  and 
the  black  moment  passed. 

To  angry  desperation  succeeded  pity  and  tenderness, 
and  with  them  a  flash  of  imaginative  understanding. 
"  Poor  tortured  little  heart ! "  he  said,  and  seating  himself 
beside  her  he  stroked  her  shoulder.  "You're  a  married 
woman,  and  you  wish  you  were  a  girl  again  —  so  that 
men  could  pursue  and  you  could  flee!  It's  only  in  love 
that  the  pleasures  of  the  chase  are  for  the  hunted.  The 
sight  of  an  old  suitor  has  set  you  tingling  to  be  off 
again.  If  only  you  would  look  up  now,  dearest,  and 
see  that  in  your  husband's  eyes  you  are  forever  to  be 
wooed,  forever  to  be  won!" 

[    126    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"Oh,  Graham,  it  is  n't  true.  You  don't  really  love 
me  —  I  don't  really  love  you.  Your  interests  are  n't 
mine.  And  since  I  've  been  seeing  George  again,  I  know 
that  —  being  with  you  —  your  wife  —  oh,  it's  humil- 
iating to  me  —  I  can't,  I  can't!  Marriage  is  degrada- 
tion, unless  it's  with  the  right  man." 

A  fresh  burst  of  sobs  followed.  Graham  caressed  the 
shoulder  in  silence. 

"Don't  touch  me.  Please  don't  touch  me,  Graham." 

He  took  his  hand  away.  The  aquamarine  pendant 
that  had  been  flung  on  the  bed  slid  down  and  rested 
against  Rosamond's  hand.  Feeling  it,  she  clutched  it 
and  threw  it  from  her,  out  upon  the  floor.  Graham 
brought  it  back,  folded  it  within  her  hand,  and  then 
held  the  hand  tight  clasped. 

"I  was  petty  to  feel  so  about  the  pretty  stone,"  he 
said.  "I'm  sorry.  I  think  that  soon  you'll  teach  me  to 
like  jewels.  I  want  you  to  wear  it  —  I  want  you  to  wear 
anything  you  like.  It  was  nasty  of  me  to  say  what  I 
did  about  Brandon's  present.  Unless  you  wear  it  I 
shall  feel  that  you  have  n't  forgiven  me." 

"Oh,  what  difference  does  it  make!" 

"It  will  make  a  difference  to  my  happiness." 

"How  can  you  talk  of  happiness!  There's  nothing 
but  misery,  misery,  misery.  If  you  can  be  happy,  how 
little  you  must  care  about  me!  I  can  never  be  happy." 

"You  will  be  when  you  have  a  child." 

"Oh,  it's  just  that  about  marriage  that  I  can't  bear. 

Not  that  I  should  dread  having  children ;  I  should  love  to 

have  children.  But  I  shrink  from  you,  Graham ;  yes,  since 

seeing  George  again,  I  feel  that  I  'm  degraded,  polluted —  " 

I    127    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"Don't,  don't,  for  God's  sake!"  The  anguish  in  his 
voice  silenced  her.  She  looked  up  at  him,  and  seeing  his 
face  contracted  with  pain  was  stricken  with  remorse; 
she  caught  his  hand  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it.  At  once 
his  arms  were  round  her.  "Oh,  my  darling,  our  mar- 
riage is  of  the  spirit." 

"If  I  could  always  feel  it!  But  when  I  see  George 
Brandon  it  comes  over  me  that  I  might  be  sharing  the 
life  of  one  who  cares  about  healing  and  curing  people. 
Instead,  I'm  your  wife." 

"But  the  lawyer  has  human  problems  to  deal  with 
and  people  to  help.  Is  n't  trying  to  remedy  injustice 
almost  as  worthy  a  work  as  trying  to  cure  disease?" 

"Is  that  what  a  lawyer  does?  But  I  had  n't  thought 
much  about  you  as  a  lawyer,  Graham.  You  see,  to  me 
you've  only  been  a  —  warrior." 

He  laughed  a  little  ruefully.  "That's  an  odd  con- 
ception." 

"It's  why  I  fell  in  love  with  you.  So  romantic,  so 
dashing  and  splendidly  brave  as  you  seemed.  And  of 
course  I  still  know  that  you  are." 

"Of  course!"  He  pinched  her  ear  playfully. 

"Only  it  doesn't  satisfy  me  now  the  way  it  did. 
Wives  of  warriors  are  generally  unhappy,  are  n't  they 
—  like  Nelson's  and  Napoleon's." 

"As  a  warrior  I  ought  to  feel  flattered;  as  a  husband 
I  don't." 

"You  've  been  good  to  me  always  — though  sometimes 
I  feel  that  you  don't  care  for  me  as  you  did." 

"Ah,  I'm  afraid  my  desertion  of  you  was  a  bad  mis- 
take. I  thought  that  the  circumstances  justified  it,  that 
[  128  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

it  could  n't  work  harm.    Of  course  I  love  you  always, 
dearest.    Love  when  it 's  of  the  spirit  does  n't  grow  less." 

"It  will  if  I  am  often  so  horrid.  I  realize  that.  Do 
you  like  to  kill,  Graham?  Why  do  you  like  to  study  ways 
of  doing  it?  It 's  the  contrast  between  that  taste  of  yours 
and  the  work  the  doctor  does  that  pains  me.  I  can't  bear 
to  feel  that  my  husband  likes  to  dwell  on  what  seems  to 
me  unworthy." 

"But  I  don't  like  to  kill!  Why,  I  never  shot  a  deer; 
I  could  n't.  It  was  not  craving  to  shed  blood  that  sent 
me  to  the  war.  It  was,  I  admit,  a  desire  for  adven- 
ture —  more  perhaps  than  any  patriotic  motive;  yes, 
my  motives  were  not  the  most  worthy.  But  killing  —  if 
I  killed  anyone  I  don't  know  it;  I  would  rather  not  know. 
Of  course  in  war  one  has  to  try.  I'm  interested  in  the 
militia  as  a  means  of  national  defense.  I  believe  in  it. 
I  want  to  see  it  well  trained,  well  drilled,  well  officered. 
It  develops  the  clerks  and  artisans  and  professional  men 
who  form  it  —  gives  them  vigor  and  character  and  readi- 
ness; to  improve  the  militia  seems  to  me  in  every  way  a 
worthy  study.  But  really  and  truly,  Rosamond,  I  'm 
a  man  of  peace ! " 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly,  saw  the  appeal  in  his 
gray  eyes,  the  smile  of  tenderness.  "Oh,  I  believe  you 
are!"  she  said.  "How  else  could  you  be  so  sweet  to  me 
when  I  'm  so  horrid !  I  'm  not  good  enough  for  you,  Gra- 
ham, but  oh,  I  will  try  to  be!" 

And  while  he  clasped  her  to  his  heart  she  besought 

him,  "You  do  love  me,  don't  you,  Graham?  You  don't 

get  tired  of  me,  do  you  ?   And  you  '11  always  hold  me  tight, 

whatever  happens  —  you'll  never,  never  let  me  go?" 

I    129    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"Oh,  I  promise!"   He  spoke  it  joyously  into  her  ear. 

To  Graham,  seeing  the  recovered  happiness  in  her 
eyes,  the  episode  was  but  one  of  many  suggesting  that 
every  wife  has  from  time  to  time  to  be  courted  and  con- 
quered. She  had  made  again  the  pleasant  surrender 
that  he  might  frequently  and  at  cost  of  disturbance  and 
anxiety  have  to  compel.  But  in  this  he  did  not  read  his 
wife  aright.  He  was  unaware  that  her  soul  had  knelt 
to  him  in  humility,  and  then  had  risen  to  follow  in  a  new 
devotion. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MESSENGERS  OF  AID 

IN  the  morning  it  no  longer  seemed  to  Rosamond  of 
the  first  importance  that  they  should  leave  Paris 
by  the  first  train.  Dorothy  knew  that  they  were  coming 
and  in  that  knowledge  might  have  some  comfort.  She 
would  probably  not  know,  she  would  certainly  not  care, 
if  their  arrival  was  delayed  until  the  evening.  So  Rosa- 
mond and  Graham  completed  their  preparations  at 
leisure  and  took  the  train  from  the  Gare  du  Nord  at 
nine  o'clock  instead  of  at  seven. 

Rosamond  wondered  if  George  were  on  the  train,  if 
he  had  taken  the  earlier  train,  if  he  would  really  go  at 
all.  It  seemed  to  her,  on  the  whole,  unlikely  that  he 
would  feel  either  impulse  or  obligation.  His  acquaint- 
ance with  the  Vasmers  was  slight,  his  promise  given 
the  night  before  might  easily  be  reconsidered,  especially 
in  view  of  the  certainty  that  she  and  Graham  would  do 
all  that  could  be  done  for  the  comfort  of  the  distressed 
ladies.  Rosamond  was  disposed  to  think  that  with  the 
coming  of  morning  George  would  exonerate  himself 
from  all  responsibility.  She  felt  that  if  this  proved 
to  be  the  case  she  could  hardly  blame  him,  and  yet 
that  she  would  think  the  less  of  him  for  it.  She  was 
not  thinking  very  highly  of  him,  as  it  was.  The  events 
that  had  brought  her  nearer  to  her  husband's  heart  had 
repelled  George  from  her.  Without  excusing  herself 
I  131  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

she  condemned  him.  Again  and  again,  while  she  was 
sitting  in  the  railway  carriage  beside  Graham,  —  who 
was  incorrigibly  deep  in  Napier!  —  her  cheeks  burned. 
She  had  heard  a  proposal  made  to  her  such  as  she  had 
been  accustomed  to  attribute  chiefly  to  the  realm  of 
unhealthy  plays  and  putrid  novels.  That  among  her 
friends  had  been  a  man  so  devoid  of  principle  seemed  as 
unreal  a  fact  as  that  her  own  conduct  should  have  pro- 
voked his  sullying  suggestion.  He  had  made  it,  and 
lightning  from  the  skies  had  not  shriveled  him;  worse 
still,  she  had  herself  dealt  no  scathing  stroke.  It  shamed 
her  to  think  of,  sitting  by  the  single-minded  reader;  she 
humbled  herself  anew  to  him.  She  could  not  taste  the 
last  cup  of  humiliation;  she  could  not  make  a  free  con- 
fession. Graham  might,  indeed,  be  a  man  of  peace,  but 
often  had  she  heard  him  express  the  opinion  that  horse- 
whips were  for  scoundrels. 

Then  her  old  loyalty  and  her  sense  of  generosity  and 
justice  cried  out  against  her;  the  portrait  of  the  unfor- 
tunate man  was  too  black !  She  dwelt  on  the  condoning 
circumstances,  scourged  herself  with  the  memory  that 
she  had  detained  him  from  the  work  in  which  had  been 
his  salvation,  recalled  the  allurements  —  harmless  they 
had  seemed !  —  that  she  had  spread  to  keep  him  linger- 
ing; playing  with  fire,  what  wonder  that  she  had  kindled 
it  into  flame!  Or  why  reproach  fire  for  having  the  prop- 
erties of  its  nature!  The  portrait  had  not  been  painted 
black,  but  it  had  been  smudged;  so  also  that  of  herself. 

Perhaps  she  could  still  give  George  a  friendly  hand; 
perhaps  they  could  mutually  signify  that  the  day  at 
Chantilly  had  been  erased  from  memory. 
[    132    ] 


On  the  boat  she  looked  for  him  and  soon  convinced 
herself  that  he  had  not  come.  Ascertaining  this,  she  felt 
somewhat  relieved;  it  would  have  been  awkward  to 
meet  him.  No  doubt  he  had  decided  that  his  coming  was 
unnecessary;  no  doubt  also  he  had  been  willing  to  avoid 
encountering  her.  The  thought  that  he  might  have  had 
a  reaction  to  shyness  and  delicacy  meant  a  thought 
towards  forgiveness. 

It  was  a  rough  sea  in  the  Channel,  and  despite  the 
quickness  of  the  crossing,  it  very  nearly  did  for  Graham. 
"You'll  excuse  me,  my  dear,  if  I  don't  try  to  talk,"  was 
his  last  utterance,  delivered  with  an  economy  of  breath; 
above  the  chrysalis  of  his  steamer  rug  his  face  seemed 
to  wither  momently.  The  qualmishness  of  his  aspect 
touched  Rosamond;  she  hovered  over  him,  cooed  to  him 
—  "Oh,  my  dear,  if  you  were  only  an  invalid  always, 
how  sweet  to  you  I  should  always  be!"  His  wan  smile 
was  her  reward. 

Magical  was  the  recovery  upon  landing,  wonderful 
the  reviving  powers  of  the  tea  basket  that  accompanied 
them  in  the  train  up  to  London. 

"I'm  glad  you're  feeling  brisk  again,  Graham,"  said 
Rosamond.  "For  of  course  there  will  be  a  great  deal  to 
do  for  Mrs.  Vasmer.  I  wish  I  had  thought  to  have  you 
look  up  sailings  for  them  — " 

"I  did  it  last  night  when  I  looked  up  trains,"  Graham 
answered.  "The  Empress  sails  to-morrow  afternoon  at 
five  from  Southampton;  that's  the  best  they  can  do. 
Then  there's  the  Slavonia  the  next  day  sailing  from 
Liverpool." 

"How  thoughtful  you  are,  Graham!    And  how  cross 
[     133    ] 


I  was!"  She  beamed  on  him;  she  toyed  with  the  aqua- 
marine pendant.  He  had  himself  fastened  it  round  her 
neck  that  morning.  "Would  you  truly  rather  not  have 
me  wear  this?  I'll  never  wear  ear-rings  or  necklaces  or 
rings  if  you'd  like  me  better  without  them." 

"No,  no."  He  laughed.  "We're  going  to  tolerate 
each  other 's  tastes  from  now  on,  and  then  perhaps  some- 
time we  shall  share  them.  I  want  you  to  wear  any- 
thing that  gives  you  pleasure,  Rosamond." 

His  gentleness,  his  tenderness  somehow  flung  her  back 
upon  her  disloyalty  of  the  day  before,  and  she  amazed 
him  by  suddenly  putting  her  head  against  his  shoulder 
and  weeping  silently.  To  his  concerned  inquiries  she 
answered  only,  "It's  nothing,  Graham.  It's  just  that 
I  love  you  —  I  do  love  you!" 

It  gave  him  great  contentment  to  hear  it,  but  he  could 
not  understand  why  the  fact  should  make  her  cry.  Yet 
the  fact  that  she  did  cry  appealed  to  his  tenderness;  he 
petted  and  caressed  her. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  realizing  that  the  tram  was 
drawing  into  Charing  Cross,  "how  my  eyes  will  look!" 
She  dabbed  at  them  with  her  handkerchief  and  added, 
"But  they  would  look  so  anyway  very  soon,  for,  of 
course,  I  shall  cry  when  I  see  Dorothy." 

At  the  hotel  while  Graham  was  engaging  rooms,  Rosa- 
mond sent  up  her  name  at  once  to  Mrs.  Vasmer. 

"Come  as  soon  as  you  can,  Graham,"  she  said,  when 
she  received  the  invitation  to  go  to  Mrs.  Vasmer's 
rooms. 

Dorothy  alone  welcomed  her.  "Oh,  my  dear,  how 
sweet  of  you  to  come  to  us ! "  The  two  girls  were  in  each 
[  134  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

other's  arms.  "To  know  that  you  would  come  —  it  has 
helped  us." 

"  Graham  is  here,  too,  —  but  I  felt  that  I  must  see 
you  first."  It  was  Rosamond  who  was  in  tears;  Dorothy, 
pale  and  wan,  kept  a  steady  lip.  "Your  mother,  Dor- 
othy—?" 

"She  is  sleeping  now.  She  is  being  very  brave,  but  she 
had  not  slept  —  not  until  this  afternoon.  Sit  here, 
Rosamond.  Father's  collapse  was  unexpected.  We 
thought  he  was  recovering;  but  peritonitis  set  in.  The 
people  here,  the  surgeon  —  every  one  has  been  kind. 
But  we  have  had  to  decide  things  —  and  poor  mother 
—  she  has  n't  known  what  to  do.  It  is  such  a  comfort 
to  see  you — it  was  such  a  comfort  to  see  Dr.  Brandon  — 
so  good  of  him  to  come." 

"George  Brandon  —  he  is  here,  then?" 

"  He  came  this  afternoon.  He  has  been  so  kind,  so 
helpful.  Indeed,  he  is  out  now  making  some  arrange- 
ments for  us." 

"When  shall  you  be  sailing?" 

"To-morrow,  on  the  Empress.  There  will  be  a  ser- 
vice in  the  morning  at  ten  o'clock  in  St.  George's. 
Mother  felt  she  could  not  sail  until  the  service  had  been 
read  over  him  —  in  church." 

Dorothy's  self-control  yielded  to  the  pressure  of  emo- 
tion. Her  lips  quivered,  the  tears  came.  Rosamond  drew 
the  sobbing  girl  to  her  breast. 

A  knock  sounded  gently  at  the  door. 

"It's  Graham;  I'll  send  him  away,"  Rosamond  said. 

But  Dorothy  caught  her  wrist,  held  it  an  instant 
firmly  while  she  wiped  away  her  tears. 
[    135    1 


"No,  I'm  all  right,  Rosamond.  I  should  like  to  see 
Graham." 

She  opened  the  door  to  him,  took  his  hand  and  drew 
him  into  the  room  —  showing  him  that  she  knew  all  that 
he  would  say  and  sparing  him  the  difficult  utterance.  She 
thanked  him  for  bringing  Rosamond  to  her,  for  coming 
himself  —  "Our  sorrow  has  broken  in  upon  your  happi- 
ness." 

He  spoke  of  his  desire  to  be  of  service.  She  was  grate- 
ful; doubtless  there  would  be  opportunity,  but  at  pres- 
ent she  could  think  of  nothing.  "Perhaps  if  you  would 
talk  with  Dr.  Brandon  —  he  has  very  kindly  taken 
charge — " 

"Yes,  certainly,  that  is  what  I  shall  do.  And  if  any- 
thing occurs  to  you,  of  course  you  will  commission  me 
through  Rosamond?" 

"Indeed,  yes."  He  bowed  over  her  hand.  "You  will 
leave  Rosamond  with  me  for  a  little  while?  " 

Rosamond  sat  elapsing  her  friend's  hand.  Now  and 
then  they  spoke,  Dorothy  to  tell  something  of  her 
father's  last  days,  Rosamond  to  murmur  a  question  or 
a  little  word  of  sorrow.  But  for  the  most  part  they 
sat  clinging  to  each  other,  close,  in  a  wordless  sym- 
pathy. 

Presently  George  Brandon's  card  was  sent  in. 

"Yes,  ask  him  to  come  up,"  said  Dorothy. 

When  he  entered,  and  saw  Rosamond,  he  looked  at 
her  uncertainly;  his  manner  was  defensive.  She  noted  it, 
and  it  made  her  wish  to  reassure  him. 

"You  did  better  than  we,"  she  said;  "we  have  just 
arrived." 

I    136    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

He  smiled,  and  she  saw  that  his  eyes  had  fallen  on  the 
aquamarine  pendant. 

"I  had  promised  you,"  he  said  in  a  tone  so  low  that 
only  she  heard. 

He  turned  to  Dorothy.  "I  have  all  the  tickets  —  rail- 
way, steamer,  everything.  And  the  money,  — "  he 
counted  it  out  for  her,  bank  notes,  gold  pieces.  "I  think 
that  everything  is  attended  to.  I  saw  the  curate  at  St. 
George's;  the  rector  is  absent.  You  need  have  nothing 
on  your  mind,  except  your  packing.  There  will  be  a 
carriage  here  for  you  at  a  quarter  to  ten  to-morrow 
morning.  Do  you  think  of  anything  else?" 

"No,  nothing.  I  don't  know  what  we  should  have 
done  without  your  help.  We  can  never  thank  you 
enough." 

"I  've  done  very  little.  If  I  can  be  of  further  use,  please 
let  me  know,  at  the  Burlington.  I  shall  be  very  glad." 

"Thank  you  again.    Good-night,  Dr.  Brandon." 

"Good-night,  Miss  Vasmer.  Good-night,  Rosa- 
mond." 

He  pressed  her  hand  lightly  and  was  gone.  Rosamond 
had  felt  a  twinge  of  jealousy  while  he  talked  —  jealousy 
on  behalf  of  Graham;  she  had  wished  that  Graham  had 
been  the  timely  and  efficient  friend,  that  to  him  Dorothy's 
gratitude  had  flowed.  But  because  George  Brandon  had 
been  so  prompt  she  felt  more  kindly  towards  him  — 
especially  since  he  had  conveyed  the  intimation  that  to 
her  his  promptness  had  been  due.  That  he  had  been 
helpful  she  saw;  sympathetic  he  always  was.  His  implied 
wish  to  make  atonement  could  not  but  touch  Rosa- 
mond's gentle  heart. 

[    137    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

She  remained  with  Dorothy  in  the  twilight  until  from 
the  next  room  Mrs.  Vasmer  called.  "Come  to  us  after 
dinner;  do!"  Dorothy  pleaded.  "Mother  will  want  to 
see  you  then." 

So  that  evening  Rosamond  left  Graham  in  his  room  to 
write  letters  and  herself  sat  with  her  friends;  companion- 
ship, if  it  could  not  administer  consolation,  at  least 
seemed  to  divert  their  thoughts.  Mrs.  Vasmer  looked 
old  and  broken.  When  finally  Rosamond  rose  to  take 
her  departure,  Mrs.  Vasmer  embraced  her  and  fell  to 
weeping.  "Dear  child,"  she  said,  "and  you  are  on  your 
wedding  journey!  Pray  that  your  husband  may  be 
spared  to  you  as  long  as  you  live!" 

Graham  wondered  that  evening  at  the  fantastic  sud- 
denness of  women.  He  was  writing  when  his  wife  en- 
tered, and  coming  up  behind  him  clung  to  him  and 
cried,  — 

"Oh,  Graham,  I  don't  want  to  grow  old!  I  don't 
want  to  grow  old  and  have  you  die!'* 


CHAPTER  XV 

DEATH   AND   BATTLEFIELDS 

THE  files  of  empty  polished  oak  pews  reflected  the 
sunlight  that  streamed  through  the  stained-glass 
windows.  On  the  altar  the  candles  were  burning  redly. 
The  verger  in  his  black  gown  crossed  the  chancel  and 
vanished;  the  door  closing  behind  him  awoke  hollow 
echoes  through  the  nave.  These  died,  and  again  the  hum 
of  outer  London  pervaded  the  silent  place.  Sitting  alone 
in  one  of  the  pews  near  the  chancel,  Rosamond  and 
Graham  waited,  strangely  conscious  of  a  deepening 
solemnity  as  the  hushed  moments  passed.  Some  one 
entered,  came  up  the  aisle,  and  sat  down  a  little  way 
behind  them.  Without  looking  round,  Rosamond  knew 
that  it  was  George. 

The  loneliness,  the  emptiness  overawed  and  stilled 
her  more  than  the  presence  of  troops  of  mourners  could 
have  done.  She  had  a  momentary  sense  that  she  and 
Graham  and  George  should  not  be  there,  that  they  were 
all  intruders,  that  there  should  be  none  but  the  family  — 
to  deliver  up  the  dead  to  God. 

From  the  organ  rose  the  low,  swelling  notes  of  "Saul." 
Suddenly  the  bell  was  tolled,  and  from  the  outer  door 
the  curate  advanced  slowly  up  the  aisle  chanting,  "I 
am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,  saith  the  Lord." 

Standing,  Rosamond  saw  the  look  of  eager  spiritual 
exaltation  on  the  young  curate's  face  —  a  look  that 
I  139  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

seemed  to  declare,  "Death  is  a  bridegroom  —  lo,  the 
bridegroom  cometh."  The  curate  passed,  and  her 
eyes  fell  on  the  coffin,  moved  slowly  forward  on  its  car; 
a  laurel  wreath  was  its  only  adornment.  Then,  walking 
feebly,  arm  in  arm,  came  the  two  sad  shrouded  women. 
Rosamond  dropped  her  eyes.  Wrhen  she  raised  them 
again,  the  two  were  standing  in  the  first  pew,  the  clergy- 
man had  turned  and  was  saying,  "Lord,  let  me  know 
mine  end,  and  the  number  of  my  days;  that  I  may  be 
certified  how  long  I  have  to  live!" 

Rosamond,  looking  at  the  daughter  and  the  wife, 
found  herself  wondering  how  much  they  believed.  She 
wondered  how  much  she  herself  believed.  Gazing  at 
the  rapt  face  of  the  young  curate,  she  thought,  "What 
happiness  to  be  sure,  like  you!"  A  vision  of  herself 
standing  there  in  Mrs.  Vasmer's  place,  hearing  these 
same  words  pronounced  over  Graham,  suddenly  chilled 
her  to  the  heart.  Oh,  that  could  never  be;  it  must  never 
be!  She  drew  closer  to  Graham  and  caught  and  held  his 
hand,  pressing  it  tight,  until  the  end  of  the  service. 

Afterwards  she  knew  that  George  Brandon,  standing 
behind  them,must  have  observed  this.  Shewasnot  sorry. 

The  organ  pealed  again  the  funeral  march.  Down  the 
aisle  the  two  women  moved  behind  their  dead,  the  eyes 
of  each  fixed  upon  the  laurel  wreath  that  rested  above  his 
breast.  The  curate  stood  at  the  chancel  steps,  and  his 
look  of  benediction  followed  the  departing  figures. 
When  they  had  passed  out,  he  turned  and  left  the  chan- 
cel, and  the  music  ceased. 

A  moment  later  George  Brandon  joined  Rosamond 
and  Graham  outside  the  church. 
[    140    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"  We  are  walking,"  said  Graham.  "  Will  you  come  with 
us?" 

"Thank  you,  no.  I  have  one  or  two  matters  to  attend 
to  now.  But  I  shall  see  you  this  afternoon.  Miss  Vasmer 
tells  me  that  you  are  going  to  Southampton,  to  see  them 
sail."  He  addressed  his  speech  to  Rosamond. 

"Yes.   You  also?" 

"Oh,  yes.   I  am  sailing,  too,  on  the  Empress." 

He  stepped  into  a  hansom  and  drove  off  towards 
Regent  Street.  Rosamond  and  Graham  walked  down 
Brook  Street  through  Grosvenor  Square  to  Park  Lane. 
There  shining  and  splendid  was  the  world  on  this  Septem- 
ber morning;  from  the  Marble  Arch,  gleaming  and  glis- 
tening in  the  sun,  streamed  the  brisk  and  busy  carriages, 
horses  in  bright  harness  at  the  unceasing  trot;  along  the 
way  the  flower  beds  of  the  Park  were  gay  with  asters; 
on  them  and  the  strollers  in  the  paths  and  the  distant 
riders  in  the  Row,  on  the  proudly  conscious  horses  and 
the  proudly  conscious  ladies,  on  the  green  quietude  of 
grass  and  trees  and  the  restless  movement  of  the  human 
throng,  the  great  houses,  symbols  and  towers  of  earthly 
grandeur,  looked  down.  So  out  into  the  lively,  shining 
world,  again  came  Rosamond,  from  a  few  moments  in 
the  presence  of  the  unseen  and  eternal  —  out  like  a 
swimmer  issuing  to  sun  and  air  from  a  dive  into  the 
depths.  She  swam  again  upon  the  surface. 

Yet  within  her  mind  there  lingered  to  dispute  the 
sovereignty  of  this  fresh  and  pleasant  world  the  vision 
of  two  sad,  forlorn  women,  seated  in  a  carriage  with  the 
shades  drawn,  and  weeping  in  each  other's  arms. 

There  was  a  message  for  her  when  she  and  Graham 
[  141  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

arrived  at  the  hotel.  Dorothy  had  written  to  beg  her 
company  on  the  train  to  Southampton.  Would  she  not 
consent  to  be  separated  from  her  husband  just  for  that 
short  journey?  Dorothy  wrote  that  her  mother  joined 
in  the  appeal. 

"Poor  things!  Do  what  you  can  for  them,"  said 
Graham. 

He  found  himself  ensconced  in  a  smoking-compartment 
with  George  Brandon.  They  talked  together  for  a  time, 
but  each  was  aware  of  stiffness  in  himself  and  in  the 
other.  Graham  itched  to  be  at  his  Napier,  George  would 
have  preferred  the  society  of  his  own  thoughts.  And 
presently  each  was  indulging  his  wishes. 

For  her  friends  Rosamond  did  her  best.  Mrs.  Vasmer 
kept  her  self-control,  seemed  to  listen  to  Rosamond's 
narrative  of  experiences  and  adventures,  —  those  with 
George  were  not  touched  on ; — once  or  twice  even  smiled. 
She  recalled  with  a  certain  poignant  pleasure  episodes 
from  her  own  European  honeymoon.  Dorothy  clung 
to  Rosamond's  hand. 

"I  wish  we  could  take  you  with  us  on  the  ship,  my 
dear,"  she  murmured.  "For  our  sake,  not  for  yours." 

On  board  the  ship  Mrs.  Vasmer  bade  Rosamond  and 
Graham  farewell  in  her  stateroom. 

"Now,  go  ashore  and  forget  all  about  us,"  she  said. 
"Thoughts  of  us  must  not  make  you  two  young  people 
unhappy  any  longer." 

She  kissed  Rosamond,  gave  her  hand  to  Graham,  and 

said  good-bye.   But  Dorothy  accompanied  them  to  the 

deck  and  stood  at  the  rail  after  they  had  descended  the 

gangway.   George  Brandon  joined  her  there,  and  when 

[    142    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

the  Empress  cast  off  and  moved  away  from  the  dock, 
Dorothy  and  George  still  kept  sight  of  Rosamond  and 
Graham  in  the  crowd  and  signalled  their  farewells. 

"Only  two  weeks  more  for  us,"  said  Graham,  as  he 
and  Rosamond  made  their  way  from  the  wharf.  "Till 
then,  what  is  it  to  be?  Back  to  Paris,  or  up  to  Scotland, 
or  what?" 

"What  should  you  most  like  to  do,  Graham?" 

"Well,"  he  confessed  with  an  ingenuous  smile,  "there 
are  some  mighty  good  battlefields  in  Scotland  that  I  Ve 
never  seen." 

"Scotland  it  is,  then.  And  I  '11  go  over  the  battlefields 
with  you.  But  Graham,  dear,  you  '11  try  to  keep  me  from 
thinking  of  them  as  scenes  of  dreadful  carnage  and 
death?" 

"  Certainly  I  will.  I  never  think  of  them  in  that  way," 
said  Graham. 

"How  unimaginative!" 

But  she  smiled  at  him  and  gave  his  arm  a  little  loving 
squeeze. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"SUN,   MOON,   AND   STARS   FORGOT  " 

TO  George  Brandon  the  experience  of  having  women 
dependent  on  him,  looking  to  him  for  help  and  com- 
fort, was  unusual  and  interesting.  For  a  few  days 
Rosamond  had  been  in  that  relation  to  him,  and  the 
novelty  had,  as  he  admitted  to  himself  now,  turned  his 
head.  His  mother  had  died  when  he  was  very  young; 
his  sister  had  married  before  he  had  developed  any  sense 
of  responsibility  for  her.  There  had  been  no  woman 
for  him  to  take  care  of,  and  there  had  been  none  to  take 
care  of  him.  In  his  hospital  practice  he  had,  of  course, 
encountered  cases  that  had  appealed  to  his  sympathy, 
but  they  had  not  been  of  a  nature  to  rouse  in  him  any 
deeper  emotion  than  kindness.  He  had  been  kind  to  many 
women,  devoted  to  only  one. 

Already  he  was  ashamed  of  the  excess  to  which  this 
devotion  had  carried  him.  He  had  been  both  ridiculous 
and  culpable.  Yet  she  had  forgiven  him;  he  had  known 
that  when  he  saw  her  wearing  his  pendant  and  heard  her 
thank  him  for  coming  at  her  friends'  need.  In  the  church 
the  significance  of  the  way  in  which  she  seized  her  hus- 
band's hand  and  clung  to  it  had  not  escaped  him.  From 
that  moment  he  relinquished  her,  even  in  his  thoughts, 
without  heart-burning.  He  knew  then  that  when  he 
had  urged  her  to  take  the  desperate  step,  he  had  been 
moved  by  a  false  conception  of  her  inmost  feelings. 
[  144  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

That  she  was  conscious  of  having  misled  him  and  wished 
to  forget  and  to  have  him  forget  he  was  now  well  aware; 
the  few  moments  that  he  had  passed  with  her  since  the 
return  from  Chantilly  had  made  him  feel  that  never 
again  could  their  intercourse  have  the  freedom  and  inti- 
macy of  old  times.  It  was  a  saddening  thought  —  and 
yet  a  liberating  thought  as  well. 

The  situation  of  the  bereaved  widow  and  daughter 
engaged  his  sympathy.  He  had  been  able  to  shield  them 
somewhat  from  bruising  contacts,  to  spare  them  the  pain 
of  dealing  with  those  for  whom  death  is  a  commercial 
opportunity  and  with  those  for  whom  it  is  an  inconvenient 
episode.  It  had  been  with  a  sense  that  he  could  be  still 
further  useful  to  them  that  he  had  taken  passage  him- 
self on  the  Empress.  A  certain  chivalry  compelled  him 
to  follow  up  the  forlorn  pair,  deliver  them  safely,  even 
at  the  cost  of  martyrdom.  Had  he  consulted  his  own 
pleasure,  he  would  have  sailed  on  any  steamer  but  the 
one  that  must  from  the  circumstances  of  the  case  be  a 
funeral  ship.  He  pitied  the  two  wromen  too  intensely 
to  have  any  clear  idea  of  them  as  individuals;  they  were 
objects  to  be  served  and  defended. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  best  fulfill  his  office 
by  establishing  himself  as  a  bulwark  against  the  intru- 
sions of  other  passengers;  then  if  the  bulwark  seemed  not 
desired,  it  could  readily  be  withdrawn.  So  he  secured 
deck  chairs  for  the  ladies  and  had  his  own  placed  next 
to  them;  and  in  the  dining-saloon  he  reserved  a  small 
table  for  three. 

Having  done  this,  he  looked  about  for  Mrs.  Vasmer 
or  Miss  Vasmer,  to  report  to  them,  but  they  did  not 
[  145  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

appear.  He  decided  not  to  disturb  them  in  their  state- 
room. That  evening  he  dined  solitary  at  his  little  table. 
At  nine  o'clock,  when  he  was  taking  a  turn  about  the 
deck,  he  encountered  Miss  Vasmer,  muffled  and  veiled. 

"  I  'm  glad  you  're  getting  some  air  and  exercise  before 
turning  in,"  he  said.  "Can't  your  mother  be  persuaded?  " 

"No;  I  tried.   She's  too  tired  to  make  an  effort." 

"It  will  do  her  no  harm  to  remain  quiet  for  a  day  or 
so  and  rest.  But  I  hope  that  she  will  come  up  on  deck. 
I've  arranged  so  that  our  deck  chairs  are  together  — 
also  that  we  have  a  little  table  to  ourselves.  If  I'm  in 
the  way,  you  must  be  frank  and  say  so.  I  thought  that, 
at  any  rate,  I  might  prevent  some  one  else  from  getting 
in  the  way." 

"Indeed,  it's  very  thoughtful  of  you.  The  fact  that 
you  will  be  right  there  —  I  'm  sure  it  will  seem  more  pos- 
sible to  mother  \o  appear.  But  you  should  n't  sacrifice 
yourself  in  this  way,  Dr.  Brandon.  We  can't  be  en- 
livening companions." 

"You  must  have  no  thought  of  that.  If  you  think  it 
would  be  a  help  to  have  me  there,  then  to  me  it  will  be 
a  pleasure.  If  you  think  it  would  n't  be  a  help,  I  shall  not 
feel  hurt." 

"Of  course  it  will  be  the  greatest  help.  Mother  and  I 
need  somebody  besides  each  other.  And  you  don't  seem 
a  stranger  to  us  any  longer.  Besides,  even  if  you  had  n't 
already  done  so  much  for  us,  a  doctor  —  you  can  hardly 
know  how  comforting  a  doctor  seems  at  times!" 

She  bade  him  good-night  and  passed  into  the  cabin. 
George  Brandon  strode  up  and  down  the  deck  and 
finally  stood  for  a  time  at  the  rail  gazing  off  at  the  dark- 
[  146  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

ness  and  the  starry  sky.  The  sound  of  the  rushing  levia- 
than beneath  his  feet  stirred  him ;  it  sang  to  him  of  energy 
and  enthusiasm ;  it  gave  forth  the  surging  note  of  pride 
in  work.  His  thoughts  lifted  to  his  future,  hopefully, 
prayerfully;  he  would  still  make  amends  for  the  fritter- 
ing away  of  years. 

It  seemed  to  George  that  the  black  in  which  Dorothy 
Vasmer  had  robed  herself  accentuated  the  warmth  of 
color  in  her  face,  the  depth  of  her  gray  eyes,  the  sensitive- 
ness of  her  lips.  He  had  imagined  her  a  person  of  rather 
hard  and  glancing  surfaces;  black,  like  the  rain  cloud 
veiling  the  bright  peak,  limned  another  character.  It 
surprised  George  and  pleased  him  to  find  how  frankly 
she  accepted  him  as  adviser,  judge,  and  confidant,  how 
ingenuous  and  unreserved  she  was  from  the  first  in  com- 
municating to  him  her  perplexities  and  her  distress.  They 
met  at  dinner,  they  sat  together  occasionally  on  deck, 
and  Dorothy  told  him  about  her  father  —  how  she  and 
her  mother  had  always  referred  even  little  details  to  him, 
how  he  had  planned  and  advised  and  decided  things 
for  them  —  things  that  his  daughter  had  been  too  lazy 
and  selfish  to  think  about  and  that  his  wife  had  learned 
to  neglect  through  the  satisfaction  in  always  feeling  so 
perfectly  managed. 

At  times  phrases  showing  where  her  mind  kept  turn- 
ing escaped  her,  as  it  were  unconsciously.  "  We  both  of 
us  dread  the  first  entering  the  house.  Why  should  we 
dread  it  so  —  reminders  of  one  we  love!" 

Her  mother  did  not  emerge  from  her  stateroom; 
Dorothy  was  with  her  most  of  the  time.  On  the  third 
morning  George  recognized  a  tired  look  in  the  girl's  eyes. 
[  147  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"I  shall  get  your  mother  up  on  deck  to-day,"  he  said. 

"  I  think  perhaps  she  will  come  if  you  advise  it." 

"And  when  she  comes,  you  will  go  to  the  stateroom 
and  sleep." 

"It's  not  necessary." 

"But  it  is.  You  have  n't  been  sleeping." 

"The  nights  are  hard,"  she  confessed.  "One  thinks 
at  night." 

"Does  n't  your  mother  sleep?" 

"Not  well.  She  dreams  and  wakes  crying.  That  rends 
me  —  and  I  seem  to  lie  and  listen  for  it." 

"Poor  souls!" 

Her  eyes  filled,  at  the  compassion  hi  his. 

He  meditated  on  her  character  as  he  had  conceived  it 
from  her  reputation.  She  had  been  the  least  known  to 
him  of  all  Rosamond's  friends  —  a  dashing,  reckless 
young  woman,  fond  of  athletics,  a  hard  rider,  enthusias- 
tic hi  society,  a  dabbler  in  charities,  and  ruthless  with 
the  large  and  ever  hopeful  male  following  that  was  al- 
ways at  her  command.  Excitement,  he  had  supposed, 
was  as  the  breath  of  life  to  her;  being  himself  enchained 
by  another's  enchantment,  he  had  never  felt  for  her 
more  than  a  cool,  somewhat  amused  admiration.  She 
was  popularly  supposed  to  be  "good  fun."  Qualities 
of  sentiment  and  submission  were  the  last  that  he  would 
have  suspected  her  of  being  willing  to  reveal. 

Mrs.  Vasmer  was  obedient  to  a  doctor's  orders.  Once 
urged  to  the  deck,  once  led  into  the  dining-saloon,  she 
accepted  such  excursions  as  part  of  the  routine  imposed 
on  her  by  a  physician;  finding  that  Dr.  Brandon  was 
determined  not  to  relax  his  supervision,  she  showed  her 
I  148  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

gratitude  by  growing  communicative.  Her  husband's 
life  had  been  an  interesting  and  worthy  one;  her  anec- 
dotes were  not  tedious.  Relating  them  while  she  lay  in 
her  steamer  chair,  her  daughter  on  one  side,  George 
Brandon  on  the  other,  she  acquired  greater  cheerfulness 
than  when  she  recalled  these  and  kindred  episodes 
merely  to  herself  in  solitude.  Her  face  brightened,  and 
with  its  brightening  George  noticed  the  quick  rally  of 
vivacity  to  her  daughter's  eyes.  They  had  often  been 
clouded  or  bright  with  tears  when  she  had  talked  with 
him ;  now  there  were  moments  when  he  caught  from  them 
sunny  gleams. 

One  of  these  moments  was  when,  circling  the  deck  on 
the  fifth  morning  in  his  regular  promenade,  he  encoun- 
tered Mrs.  Vasmer  and  her  daughter  pacing  arm  in  arm 
in  the  opposite  direction.  There  was  a  morning  greeting 
for  him  then  that  seemed  to  sparkle.  Three  times  on 
each  successive  round  he  encountered  it,  the  shy  smile 
and  the  shining  glance.  On  his  fourth  circuit  it  failed 
him ;  Dorothy  and  her  mother  had  finished  their  exercise 
and  their  deck  chairs  were  vacant.  The  discovery  took 
something  of  the  eager  spirit  from  George's  feet.  The 
meeting  and  the  glance  —  the  certainty  of  them  would 
have  kept  him  treading  the  deck,  round  after  round, 
with  the  persistent  willingness  of  a  squirrel  hi  a  revolving 
cage. 

George  did  not  attempt  to  deceive  himself;  he  knew 
that  he  was  falling  in  love.  The  question  was  whether 
he  should  now  try  to  repress  the  tendency  or  follow  it. 
He  sat  down  and  then  stretched  himself  out  in  his  deck 
chair  to  think  about  the  matter. 
I  149  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

He  tried  to  test  the  sincerity  and  significance  of  his 
awakening  interest  by  comparing  his  new  emotions  over 
Dorothy  with  those  that  Rosamond  had  inspired;  and 
he  found  that  he  could  not  really  proceed  to  any  compari- 
son. One  girl  he  had  known  for  years,  and  the  other  for 
days.  He  admitted  that  certain  emotions  and  sentiments 
which  only  a  week  before  he  had  believed  consecrated  to 
the  service  or  the  worship  of  Rosamond  were  now  de- 
claring themselves  for  a  new  mistress.  "She  likes  me, 
she  makes  me  feel  that  she  likes  being  dependent  on 
me,  she  makes  me  feel  that  I  like  having  her  so.  Now  am 
I  being  led  along  by  vanity  or  am  I  not?  "  He  desired 
an  honest  answer;  he  was  still  listening  for  it  when  Do- 
rothy Vasmer  came  briskly  by  in  front  of  him  and  turned 
on  him  again  her  disturbing  smile. 

"  Mother 's  had  enough,  but  I  have  n't,"  she  explained. 

And  so  he  flung  self-analysis  and  steamer  rug  aside 
and  joined  her. 

The  briskness  and  vigor  of  her  gait  did  not  encourage 
talk.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  been  with  her  in 
this  mood  and  it  stimulated  him  pleasantly.  He  re- 
membered now  how  she  had  used  to  romp  at  dances;  not 
till  this  moment  had  he  thought  of  it.  Rosamond  float- 
ing gracefully,  smiling  serenely,  drifting  without  effort 
obedient  to  her  partner's  will,  and  this  creature,  flushed 
and  eager,  sweeping  down  the  room  like  a  Diana,  — 
these  were  two  contrasting  pictures.  And  never  till  now 
had  George  seen  the  charm  in  the  Diana. 

She  said  to  him,  "  I  should  like  to  get  on  a  horse  and 
ride  and  ride  and  ride." 

Suddenly  her  steps  flagged.  She  stopped  by  the  rail 
1  150  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

and  stood  looking  out  over  the  shining  crested  waves. 
When  she  turned,  George  saw  that  her  expression  had 
changed;  her  eyes  were  misted  over. 

" It  was  father  who  taught  me  to  ride,"  she  said.  "The 
best  rides  I  ever  had  were  with  him.  I  think  I  'm  heart- 
less —  not  to  be  thinking  of  him  every  moment.  Some- 
times I  can't  believe  he 's  dead  —  when  I  feel  so  much 
alive." 

"  Not  heartless.  Oh ! "  he  exclaimed,  for  she  had  turned 
from  him  again  with  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 
"Would  you  rather  have  me  go  away?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  said  after  a  moment,  "I 
realize  it's  mean  to  cling  to  you  when  I'm  in  this  de- 
pressing state." 

"My  dear  girl,  what  is  a  friend  for?  I  hope  you  count 
me  a  friend?" 

"Oh,  I  do,  one  of  my  best  and  dearest.  No,  you 
have  n't  been  a  friend;  you've  been  an  angel  to  us." 

"I  like 'friend' better." 

"  Friend,  then,  —  one  of  my  best  and  dearest.  It  must 
be  hard  to  be  a  doctor  —  always  seeing  women  at  their 
most  emotional!" 

She  smiled  at  him,  wistful  after  weeping,  and  he  longed 
to  take  her  in  his  arms. 

The  interview  left  him  shaken,  agitated  by  the  first 
stirring  of  passion.  He  no  longer  questioned;  the  chang- 
ing lights  in  her  sweet  eyes  kindled  his  spirit,  her  lips 
were  brave  for  love,  her  voice  woke  echoes  in  his  soul. 
He  was  jealous  of  her  every  disappearance  from  his 
view.  He  watched  her  with  a  new  intentness,  of  which 
she  seemed  unaware.  Each  sign  and  expression  from  her 
I  151  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

of  grateful  dependence  on  him  made  him  tremulous  with 
delight.  Best  of  all  he  felt  for  her  true  tenderness.  He 
had  helped  her,  he  knew;  he  had  loved  to  help  her;  al- 
ways he  would  love  to  help  and  serve  her. 

And  after  one  more  day  she  would  pass  from  under 
his  dominion.  The  horde  of  romping  suitors,  now  deco- 
rous and  grave,  would  surround  her,  and  to  some  one 
of  them,  hi  the  new  emotional  susceptibility  that  now 
possessed  her,  she  would  strike  her  flag.  On  the  last 
evening  of  the  voyage  after  dinner,  George  asked  her  to 
walk  the  deck  with  him.  They  had  it  almost  to  them- 
selves for  there  was  a  high  cold  wind,  and  clouds  had 
blotted  out  moon  and  stars. 

"Let  us  stand  here,"  said  George;  he  drew  her  into 
a  corner  behind  a  lifeboat  where  they  were  sheltered 
from  wind  and  from  the  notice  of  any  who  might  pass. 
Then  he  spoke  rapidly  in  an  unsteady  voice.  "Yester- 
day you  called  me  one  of  your  best  and  dearest  friends. 
I  want  to  be  forever  your  best  and  dearest  friend  — 
your  husband.  I  love  you,  and  I  have  never  loved  doing 
anything  as  I  have  loved  serving  you." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  in  the  shadow  he 
could  learn  nothing  from  the  half-averted  face.  Then 
she  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  eyes  warm  in  the 
darkness. 

"And  I  love  you." 

He  had  not  dared  to  hope  for  such  immediate,  such 
unreserved  surrender;  it  awed  him.  His  own  soul  that 
had  debated  with  itself  seemed  shriveled  and  small  com- 
pared with  hers.  It  was  with  a  shy  reverence  strange  hi 
him  that  he  put  his  arm  round  her.  She  elapsed  the 
I  152  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

stealing  hand  and  held  it  warmly;  at  the  clasp  passion 
flowed  through  him. 

There  by  the  rail  they  stood  while  the  clouds  parted 
in  the  sky  and  moon  and  stars  swam  clear.  She  was  his 
with  no  questioning.  He  more  than  any  other  person  in 
the  world  had  supported  her  and  her  mother  in  their 
sorrow  and  distress.  How  should  she  not  love  him? 

Yet  to  him  it  was  so  wonderful  that  again  and  again 
he  had  to  be  assured  of  the  truth.  She  was  his  —  with 
no  cajoling,  no  coaxing,  no  fleeing  and  pursuing!  And 
she  did  not  doubt  him.  She  did  not  require  him  to  sat- 
isfy her  that  he  loved  her  more  than  he  had  ever  loved 
Rosamond.  She  believed  him,  she  believed  in  him,  she 
loved  him  —  and  oh,  the  gallant  spirit  so  frank  and 
free  to  recognize  her  mate ! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

GREETINGS  FROM  DR.   ARMAZET 

THERE  was  a  shadow  on  George  Brandon's  happi- 
ness. He  realized,  that  however  successful  in  love 
a  man  might  be,  loving  was  in  itself  no  satisfying  occu- 
pation for  a  man.  Whoever  tries  to  make  an  occupation 
of  it  will  only  degrade  love  and  in  the  end  extinguish  it. 
The  reflection  was  an  uncomfortable  one.  He  himself 
was  confronting  idleness.  No  longer  could  he  roam  the 
world  for  butterflies  and  preserve  the  plausible  figure  of 
a  man.  The  years  when  he  should  have  established  him- 
self in  his  profession  had  slipped  by.  To  wait  for  pa- 
tients who  never  came,  to  hope  for  hospital  appointments 
that  were  never  conferred,  would  be  a  melancholy  doom 
for  his  father's  son.  Fate  had  been  unkind  in  the  person 
of  Dr.  Armazet;  there  had  been  his  chance!  Yet,  had  he 
seized  it,  he  would  never  have  won  Dorothy.  Each 
month,  each  year  that  passed  without  his  gaming  foot- 
hold in  his  profession  must  mean  a  drain  upon  buoyancy 
and  cheerfulness. 

Gloomy  meditations  such  as  these  his  smiling  eyes 
had  to  mask  as  he  stood  on  deck  with  Dorothy  and  her 
mother  while  the  steamer  slid  past  the  islands  of  Boston 
Harbor.  All  about  them  were  returning  travelers,  ex- 
claiming happily,  pointing  eagerly  at  the  landmarks 
that  meant  home.  But  Mrs.  Vasmer  was  silent  and  clung 
to  George's  arm;  emotion  tightened  her  fingers.  George, 
[  154  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

already  welcomed  by  her  with  tears  as  a  son,  pressed  her 
hand.  His  arm  supported  her  when  she  passed  down  the 
gangway  to  the  wharf;  there  her  brother  and  his  wife 
were  waiting. 

"Come  this  evening,"  Dorothy  whispered  to  him  as 
they  parted.  Already  she  was  reluctant  to  have  him 
leave  her  side. 

When  he  was  again  in  his  rooms  on  Beacon  Street,  he 
walked  through  them  exhilarated,  yet  touched  with 
regret,  too,  at  the  thought  that  they  would  not  long  be 
his  home.  They  had  been  comfortable  quarters  —  a 
convenient  sallying-point  for  a  young  man  about  town, 
a  pleasant  rally  ing-point  for  the  young  man's  friends;  the 
view  from  the  windows  was  extensive  and  varied  enough 
to  divert  one  who  was  often  idle.  The  place  was  one  not 
to  be  abandoned  lightly,  without  affection.  Yet  George 
felt  himself  uncomfortable  in  it;  too  acutely  it  revived 
the  past.  It  had  been  the  setting  for  the  jewel  of  his  love 
for  Rosamond;  in  it  what  castles  had  he  built,  what  let- 
ters had  he  penned !  Now  it  was  as  if  tainted  with  false 
sentiment.  And  for  its  part  it  seemed  somehow  to  re- 
proach him.  The  vows  committed  to  paper  at  that 
table,  the  eager  hopes  that  had  been  in  his  heart  so  often 
when  he  had  smiled  into  his  glass  —  had  they,  in  spite 
of  all  the  years  and  all  the  thought,  taken  such  shallow 
root !  Imperatrix  R  in  the  cabinet  should  now  be  Impera- 
trix  D;  after  all,  when  love  flies  out  of  one  window,  it 
soon  enters  again  by  another.  George  asserted  to  him- 
self, against  the  reproach  of  the  mute  witnesses  of  past 
emotions,  that  his  love  for  Rosamond  had  been  neither 
false  nor  shallow  —  and  even  more  vehemently  that  his 
[  155  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

love  for  Dorothy  was  just  as  fresh  and  fine  as  if  his  eyes 
had  never  sparkled  to  another  girl's,  as  if  his  lips  had 
never  breathed  allegiance  but  to  her.  He  thought  of 
Dorothy  with  tenderness.  Of  inconsistency  in  his  mental 
view  of  her  he  was  conscious.  There  was  fascination 
for  him  in  her  as  the  unknown  lady  of  his  memory  fly- 
ing down  a  ballroom,  twinkling  laughter  at  her  court; 
yet  for  the  Dorothy  that  he  knew  and  had  won,  pity 
rather  than  fascination  moved  in  him.  In  sorrow,  hi 
the  depths  of  tragic  life,  in  the  acknowledgment  of  de- 
pendence and  the  acceptance  of  support,  charm  had  van- 
ished, and  spiritual  sweetness,  not  less  appealing,  had 
been  revealed.  The  lover  was  sure  that  hi  happier  days 
the  lady  whose  fascinating  portrait  brightened  a  cham- 
ber of  memory  would  reappear. 

Two  pigeons  alighted  on  the  window  ledge  and  en- 
gaged hi  amorous  march  and  countermarch,  ruffling  the 
mottled  iridescence  of  their  necks.  Their  wooing  ended, 
they  took  their  flight  over  the  neighboring  roofs.  The 
trees  of  the  Common  and  the  Garden  were  showing  the 
first  gold  of  autumn,  the  grass  was  dusty  and  faded,  yet 
the  few  carriages  that  crawled  up  Beacon  Street  were 
significant  of  midsummer  dullness,  and  the  great  foun- 
tain in  the  Frog  Pond,  visible  from  George's  window, 
was  playing  to  full  benches.  George  felt  that  it  was 
not  for  him  to  join  the  loungers,  either  there  or  at  his 
Club.  He  must  waste  no  time  in  seeking  to  place  himself, 
and  he  set  out  to  find  Dr.  Armazet,  in  the  hope  of  re- 
ceiving some  useful  suggestions  or  advice. 

The  surgeon  was  quitting  his  hospital  when  George 
came  up  to  the  steps. 

I    156    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"Ah,  Brandon,"  he  said  cordially.  "Glad  to  see  you 
back.  I'm  just  driving  out  to  Brookline  to  visit  a  pa- 
tient; hop  in  and  we'll  have  a  talk." 

So  George  entered  the  waiting  victoria,  and  as  the 
horses  started  off  at  a  rapid  trot  he  began  somewhat 
awkwardly.  "  I  'm  sorry,  Dr.  Armazet,  that  I  failed  to 
keep  my  appointment.  I  was  unavoidably  detained — ' ' 
He  was  about  to  add,  "I  found  that  I  could  do  a  service 
to  a  friend,"  when  Dr.  Armazet  interrupted  him. 

"Yes,  I  know."  The  surgeon  nodded  shrewdly, 
kindly.  He  was  a  small,  spare  man,  with  gray  mutton- 
chop  whiskers  and  mustache;  somewhat  a  dandy  in 
dress;  he  drove  behind  good  horses  and  a  liveried  coach- 
man always.  "You  were  helping  Mrs.  Vasmer  through 
her  trouble;  yes,  I  learned  from  her  brother;  she  had 
cabled  him.  A  fine  old  chap,  Vasmer  was,  and  a  dea> 
friend  of  mine.  I  am  glad  that  you  could  do  his  family 
a  service.  If  you  still  want  a  place  with  me,  it's  open  to 
you.  I  sent  my  message  in  a  moment  of  irritation;  you 
will  find  I'm  often  irritated,  irascible  as  the  devil.  But 
it  passes — all  moods  pass.  I  have  no  one  else;  I  like  what 
I  know  of  you  —  these  butterfly  vagaries,  you  can  live 
them  down;  you  come  of  good  stock.  I  wish  to  know 
just  one  thing;  you  are  in  earnest  now  in  your  intention 
to  practice  this  profession?" 

"Absolutely.  I  shall  go  on  no  more  butterfly  expedi- 
tions." 

"Certainly  not.    You  will  have  no  opportunity.    If 

I  find  that  you  do  good  work,  you  will  have  more  and 

more  responsibility;  if  you  don't  do  good  work  —  have 

a  cigarette."  The  proffer  of  the  cigarette  case  nullified 

[     157    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

the  asperity  of  the  unuttered  conclusion.  "The  work 
will  be  wearing,  and  it  is  poorly  paid  —  except  in  ex- 
perience. And  you  will  find  me  hard  to  get  along  with; 
I'm  irascible  as  the  devil." 

"If  you  were  the  devil  himself  I  should  still  be  glad  of 
the  opportunity,"  said  George.  "It  means  a  great  deal 
to  me.  When  should  you  like  me  to  begin?" 

"The  sooner  the  better.  To-morrow?" 

"That  will  suit  me  perfectly." 

"Very  well,  then.  Report  at  my  hospital  at  nine 
o'clock  and  I  will  get  you  started." 

They  chatted  then  of  other  things  —  Paris,  the  meet- 
ing with  Mrs.  Vasmer  and  her  daughter,  the  record  of 
the  Boston  baseball  team  and  the  prospects  for  the 
Harvard  football  team.  And  while  he  maintained  his 
share  of  the  conversation,  George  was  thrilling  with  the 
proud  joyousness  that  he  had  felt  at  only  a  few  great  mo- 
ments of  his  life  —  as  when  he  had  made  the  winning 
touchdown  in  his  school  championship  game,  and  again 
when  he  had  captured  Imperatrix  R  —  or  D — and  again 
when  Dorothy  had  showed  him  her  heart.  Perhaps  he 
felt  even  more  exultant  now  than  when  he  had  heard 
that  sweet  word  from  her  lips,  for  now  his  whole  sky  had 
cleared;  to  the  young  man  opportunity  is  even  more  than 
love. 

Late  that  afternoon  when  he  saw  Dorothy  at  home, 
she  disappointed  him  a  little  by  not  seeming  to  grasp 
the  significance  of  his  news. 

"Why,  of  course,  Dr.  Armazet  would  be  glad  to  have 
you  for  his  assistant,"  she  said.  "And  if  he  would  n't 
others  would.  You'd  make  a  success  anyway  —  and 
[  158  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

you  won't  be  anybody's  assistant  long.  You  '11  be  having 
assistants  of  your  own.  It  seems  to  me  he  means  to  get 
a  great  deal  out  of  you  and  pay  you  very  little  in  return." 

"The  chance  is  enough,  without  any  question  of  pay," 
George  explained.  "I  shall  be  sharing  in  the  widest  ex- 
perience and  the  best  practice  in  Boston." 

"Well,  if  you're  pleased,"  she  conceded.  "But  it 
does  seem  to  me  that  he  ought  to  pay  you  better,  he's 
so  rich,  too!  And  you'd  make  a  success  without  his  help 
—  probably  sooner!" 

He  liked  to  be  assured  of  her  confidence  in  him*  yet 
he  would  have  liked  it  even  better  if  she  had  appreciated 
intelligently  the  advantages  that  the  position  offered 
him  —  and  the  good  work  that  he  must  have  done  to 
justify  the  offer!  It  occurred  to  him  that  success  and 
good  work  were  things  that  she  probably  took  for  granted 
on  the  part  of  her  friends,  and  that  she  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  think  of  them  as  accompanied  by  hard  work; 
perhaps  in  her  eyes  one  grew  up  to  them  quite  naturally. 
The  idea,  a  not  wholly  comfortable  one,  derived  some  con- 
firmation from  the  surroundings  in  which  George  found 
himself.  The  Vasmer  house  was  one  of  luxury  and  mag- 
nificence. Not  easily  overawed  by  splendor,  George  on 
crossing  the  threshold  had  felt  quite  appalled  at  the 
consciousness  that  he  had  come  into  such  intimate  con- 
tact with  what  was  obviously  a  swollen  fortune.  To  a 
girl  brought  up  in  that  atmosphere,  success  and  achieve- 
ment were  platitudes;  indeed,  Mr.  Vasmer  had  been  one 
who  carried  lightly  his  wealth  and  his  enterprises,  and 
Dorothy  had  become  imbued  with  the  feeling  that  those 
whom  she  knew  were  an  aristocracy  in  point,  not  merely 
[  159  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

of  birth,  but  also  of  ability,  destined  to  large  perform- 
ance with  careless  ease.  George  remembered  that  the 
young  men  who  had  been  in  her  train  were  all  of  conspicu- 
ous promise  and  distinction,  that  she  had  displayed  a 
knack  for  drawing  to  herself  youthful  notabilities.  All 
the  more  flattering,  then,  was  her  acceptance  of  him  — 
but  he  must  beware  of  striking  a  pose  that  he  could  not 
maintain.  Hard  work  could  be  for  him  the  only  means  to 
good  work  —  but  she  would  soon  understand. 

"I  am  to  start  in  to-morrow,"  he  said,  "and  my  time 
will  be  so  little  my  own  that  I  can't  tell  how  often  I  may 
have  an  opportunity  of  seeing  you,  Dorothy.  Let  us  be 
married  soon,  dear." 

"Soon?"  she  echoed  doubtfully;  and  then  she  said, 
"Well,  why  should  n't  we?  Except  that  it  may  be  hard 
for  mother." 

"I  shan't  be  taking  you  from  her." 

"We  might  live  here.  There  is  room  for  us  —  room 
for  you  to  have  an  office." 

He  shook  his  head.  "No.  When  we  start  out  to- 
gether, you  must  be  under  my  wing,  not  I  under  yours. 
Besides,  if  I  opened  an  office  in  a  place  like  this,  no  one 
would  take  me  seriously.  Can  we  be  married  within  a 
month?" 

"That  seems  so  abrupt — " 

"But  you  won't  have  to  undertake  preparations  for 
a  big  wedding." 

"I  always  supposed  I  should  have  that,"  she  said 
with  a  sigh.  "I  always  wanted  it." 

"You  would  n't  keep  me  waiting?" 

"No.  And  really,  why  should  n't  we  be  married  hi  a 
I  160  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

month?  If  mother  can  be  reconciled  to  it.  Are  you  sure 
that  you  love  me,  George?" 

He  asserted  it,  embracing  her. 

"You  don't  know  me  very  well." 

"As  well  as  you  know  me.  And  you  do  love  me,  don't 
you?" 

"How  could  I  help  it?  And  I  never  loved  any  one 
before.  That  is  what  makes  me  sure  —  now." 

George  said,  after  a  moment's  silence,  "  I  am  sure  — 
not  for  that  reason." 

She  stopped  him,  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm  and 
pressing  it. 

"  I  mean  never  to  be  jealous  of  Rosamond  —  I  care 
for  her  too  much.  She  might  have  been  yours  and  she 
chose  another;  I  am  sorry  for  her  —  that's  all." 

"You're  a  magnanimous  soul,  and  I'm  an  unworthy 
one.  But  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you." 

She  gave  her  lips  and  eyes  to  his  kisses;  she  murmured, 
"Oh,  it's  wrong,  it's  wrong;  I  should  be  feeling  only 
sorrow,  and  I  am  feeling  only  happiness."  And  then  she 
added,  as  if  to  herself,  "Father  would  be  happy  if  he 
knew." 

That  brought  George  in  spirit  to  his  knees."  Oh,  how 
I  shall  work  to  make  you  always  happy ! " 

"Love  me,"  she  said. 

"If  that  were  all!  And  so  what  day  shall  we  set?  A 
month  from  to-day?" 

"If  mother  consents." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  Let 's  go  to  your  mother  about 
it  now." 

"No,  no!"  She  reached  up  from  the  sofa  where  she 
[  161  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

sat  and  caught  his  hand.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears;  she 
said  in  a  choking  voice,  "Mother  is  sitting  upstairs 
alone,  with  —  with  father;  she  wished  it.  And  I  am  here 
happy  —  happy!" 

She  turned  her  face  from  him,  trying  to  hide  her  sobs. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A  LITTLE  HOUSE   IN    MARLBOROUGH   STREET 

FROM  the  beginning,  Dr.  Armazet  made  George 
feel  that  he  regarded  him  as  competent  for  any  sur- 
gical crisis.  He  spared  no  pains  in  preparing  him  for 
each  important  case.  Most  of  Dr.  Armazet's  cases  were 
important.  Not  only  in  the  number  of  patients,  but  also 
in  the  territory  that  he  covered  was  his  surgical  practice 
extensive.  It  reached  out  to  towns  and  cities  within  a 
radius  of  sixty  or  seventy  miles  from  Boston.  Physi- 
cians in  Newburyport,  Worcester,  and  New  Bedford 
frequently  summoned  him.  Wherever  he  went  to  oper- 
ate, he  took  George  with  him ;  George  shared  in  the  grate- 
ful glance  that  said,  "God  bless  you,"  in  the  pleading 
look  that  cried,  "Help  me!"  in  the  clouded  gaze  that 
spoke  of  hopelessness.  From  gloom  into  sunlight,  and 
from  sunlight  into  gloom,  the  transitions  of  the  busy 
surgeon's  life  were  swift  and  sharp.  He  bore  them  with 
equanimity;  he  told  George  that  he  had  long  ago  sup- 
pressed imaginative  tendencies  to  dwell  morbidly  or 
happily  on  the  condition  of  those  with  whom  he  dealt. 
His  professional  creed  was  that  life  matters  but  little, 
and  that  nothing  else  matters  so  much.  The  irascibility 
of  which  he  had  notified  George  manifested  itself  fre- 
quently while  he  was  operating;  he  swore  profanely  at 
any  unfavorable  discovery,  cried  out  sharply  at  any 
awkwardness  or  lack  of  deftness  on  the  part  of  nurse 
I  163  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

or  assistant,  and  afterwards  invariably  said,  "If  I  got  a 
bit  excited,  you  must  forgive  me;  I'm  irascible  as  the 
devil."  The  nurses  all  adored  him. 

There  were  so  many  points  to  engage  George's  atten- 
tion and  the  human  interest  of  the  work  was  so  continu- 
ous and  absorbing  that  when  he  had  a  slack  moment  he 
was  rather  disturbed  to  consider  how  absent  Dorothy 
had  been  from  his  thoughts.  Surely  life  without  her  ought 
not  to  be  so  satisfying;  hastening  to  her  in  sudden  per- 
plexity and  concern  he  was  reassured  to  find  that  she 
made  life  rapturous.  She  did  not  reproach  him  for  neg- 
lecting her;  she  showed  such  joy  in  his  presence  that  he 
reproached  himself.  How  she  did  love  him!  And  how 
delicious  it  was  to  be  so  loved!  "Whenever  the  tele- 
phone rings,  I  hope  it's  you.  And  I  think  of  you  every 
hour  and  wonder  how  soon  you'll  come.  When  we're 
married,  George,  we  shall  be  together  more,  shan't  we?  " 

He  assured  her  of  that.  He  explained  under  what 
pressure  he  had  been  working.  She  entreated  him  not  to 
let  Dr.  Armazet  make  a  slave  of  him. 

He  began  to  describe  his  day,  to  show  that  there  was 
no  slavery;  he  was  proceeding  into  considerable  detail 
when  she  stopped  him:  "Oh,  but  skip  the  operations, 
George!  I  really  don't  like  to  hear  about  such  things; 
they  make  me  squirm.  Talk  to  me  about  just  you  and 
me." 

Again  he  thought  how  delicious  to  be  so  loved!  He 
told  her  that  he  was  glad  their  wedding-day  was  only 
three  weeks  distant,  absences  from  her  were  so  very  hard 
to  bear.  In  the  intoxication  of  her  presence  this  really 
seemed  the  truth.  She  asked  him  if  he  had  thought  at 
[  164  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

all  about  where  they  should  live.   No,  he  had  been  too 
much  occupied. 

"But  why  shouldn't  we  go  house-hunting  to-mor- 
row? I  have  nothing  scheduled  for  the  afternoon.  Per- 
haps I  'd  better  tell  Dr.  Armazet  at  once  of  our  plans." 

She  conceded  this,  on  the  condition  that  Dr.  Arma- 
zet should  be  vowed  to  secrecy  until  the  engagement 
was  formally  announced.  And  as  that  was  to  be  hi  three 
days  she  thought  that  he  could  be  trusted. 

"I'm  afraid  we  shall  have  a  very  short  honeymoon; 
I  don't  know  just  how  Dr.  Armazet  will  view  the  pro- 
ceeding." 

"Dr.  Armazet,  always  Dr.  Armazet!"  cried  Dorothy. 
"But  it's  all  right,  I  ought  not  to  be  awray  from  mother 
very  long  just  now.  I  will  consent  to  the  short  honey- 
moon. Mother  has  been  sweet  about  letting  me  go  away 
to  live  with  you.  She  would  so  much  rather  have  us  live 
here  with  her." 

"We  will  try  to  find  something  close  by,  where  she 
will  feel  that  you  can  run  in  at  any  moment.  A  little 
house  in  Marlborough  Street,  just  one  block  down,  is 
for  sale.  We  might  look  at  that  to-morrow,  or  would  you 
rather  live  in  an  apartment?  " 

"Oh,  no;  a  little  house  all  our  own!" 

Dr.  Armazet  received  George's  announcement  with 
gratifying  enthusiasm. 

"Good!"  he  cried.  "Good,  indeed!  A  doctor  unmar- 
ried lacks  his  right  hand.  And  she's  a  splendid  girl. 
—  Yes,  I  shall  have  to  allow  you  a  holiday  for  such  a 
purpose.  How  much  time  off  do  you  want,  and  when 
do  you  want  it?" 

I    165    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

George  suggested  ten  days. 

"God  bless  you,  yes.  And  I'm  glad  you're  doing  this 
thing  at  the  beginning.  For  in  a  year  or  two,  I  might  be 
depending  on  you  too  much  to  let  you  get  married." 

It  was  a  compliment  that  hit  the  mark.  "Then  he 
does  think  well  of  me."  With  this  happy  inference  to 
encourage  him  George  took  Dorothy  that  afternoon  to 
view  the  Marlborough  Street  house.  She  was  delighted 
with  it;  of  course  it  would  need  new  wall-papers  and 
some  repairs,  but  it  was  a  cozy,  comfortable-looking  lit- 
tle house.  The  fact  that  it  was  but  a  few  steps  from  her 
mother's  made  it  seem  to  Dorothy  especially  desirable. 
The  reception-room  off  the  front  hall  would  serve  as  a 
consulting-room;  the  dining-room  behind  it  would  have 
to  be  utilized  as  a  waiting-room  during  George's  after- 
noon office-hours.  —  "  We  shall  have  to  lunch  early," 
said  Dorothy.  "But  we  shan't  mind  that."  Upstairs 
she  would  have  a  sunny  drawing-room  and  a  tiny  library. 
"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  think  it  will  be  adorable, 
George.  Let's  try  it.  Can  you  afford  to  buy  it?" 

"We'll  see,"  said  George,  and  he  went  that  afternoon 
to  interview  the  agent.  The  price  asked  seemed  unrea- 
sonably high.  George  made  an  offer,  and  the  next  day 
was  notified  that  it  had  been  accepted.  "I  might  have 
got  it  for  less,"  he  thought;  "but  since  Dorothy  is 
pleased  with  it  I  can't  grudge  the  money."  It  occurred 
to  him  that  Dorothy  probably  had  an  income  of  her  own, 
and  in  that  case  the  purchase  of  the  house  would  not 
cause  any  constraint.  If,  however,  there  were  only  his 
resources  to  depend  on,  they  would  have  to  live  econo- 
mically until  his  practice  became  remunerative.  But 
,[  166  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Dorothy  would  not  object  to  that.  Besides,  she  was  in 
mourning,  and  so  would  have  little  temptation  to  be 
extravagant.  So  George  felt  that  he  was  justified  in 
purchasing  the  house.  He  felt  that  he  was  justified 
in  doing  anything  that  would  please  Dorothy. 

The  announcement  of  the  engagement  made  a  grati- 
fying though  brief  sensation;  George's  industry  and 
Dorothy's  seclusion  were  not  favorable  to  a  prolonged 
flutter  of  excitement.  People  wondered  how  it  hap- 
pened that  an  ardently  besought  young  woman  like 
Dorothy  should  have  bestowed  her  hand  so  precipitately 
on  a  left-over  lover.  Yet,  though  Gossip  was  mildly 
cynical,  it  did  not  grudge  George  what  it  termed  his  con- 
solation. Poor  fellow,  Rosamond  had  led  him  a  dance! 
After  such  an  experience  a  man  can  be  counted  on  to 
hurl  himself  into  the  arms  of  the  first  attractive  woman 
who  is  kind  to  him;  but,  usually,  attractive  women  are 
on  their  guard  against  presenting  themselves  as  a  re- 
fuge. Of  course,  alone  with  her  mother  in  suddenly 
tragic  circumstances,  Dorothy  must  have  been  espe- 
cially susceptible  to  sympathy.  George  must  have  ap- 
peared at  the  "psychological  moment."  Dear  Gossip, 
what  phrases  escape  you! 

Hetty  Mallory  was  delighted  with  her  brother's 
achievement.  More  worldly  minded  than  George,  she 
speculated  with  her  husband  as  to  the  probable  size  of  the 
Vasmer  fortune  and  wondered  if  any  important  share 
of  it  had  immediately  devolved  upon  Dorothy.  On  this 
point  she  tactfully  tried  to  elicit  information  from  her 
brother,  but  soon  satisfied  herself  that  he  knew  nothing. 
As  a  prospective  sister,  she  was  attentive  to  Dorothy,  and 
I  167  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

liberal  with  advice  on  various  subjects,  from  the  proper 
way  of  humoring  George  at  breakfast  to  the  choice  of 
curtains  for  the  drawing-room.  Hetty,  in  her  energy 
and  conscious  competence,  could  not  help  being  officious, 
and  Dorothy,  who  had  been  prepared  to  love  everybody 
and  everything  connected  with  George,  could  not  help 
stiffening  against  Hetty's  well-meant  intrusions.  She 
was  sorry,  but  she  did  not  care  for  George's  sister. 

The  young  men  at  the  club  which  it  had  been  George's 
custom  to  frequent  arranged  a  dinner  in  honor  of  one 
whom  they  now  saw  but  seldom.  It  was  a  festivity  of  a 
kind  in  which  he  had  always  been  a  leading  and  hilarious 
spirit.  There  were  twenty  of  them  who  gathered  in  the 
upper  room  with  its  oaken  beams  and  shuttered  windows. 
The  long  table  was  lighted  with  tall  candles  in  pewter 
candlesticks,  the  boards  were  bare,  the  feast  was  of  an 
elaborate  simplicity  —  nothing  but  oysters  and  butter- 
ball  ducks  and  champagne.  Steve  Foster  clinked 
glasses  with  George  and  reminded  him  of  the  last  time 
they  had  drunk  together.  "You're  happier  now  —  and 
I'm  just  the  same,"  he  sighed.  Later  in  the  evening 
he  lamented  that  he  had  overslept  and  missed  the  sail- 
ing. "It  it  had  not  been  for  that,  who  knows?  They 
might  be  giving  a  dinner  here  for  me.  Who  knows? 
Who  knows?  "  He  mused  profoundly,  gazing  at  his  glass. 

There  was  a  piano  in  the  corner;  Lloyd  Evans  seated 
himself  at  it  and  played  the  accompaniment  for  the 
choruses.  Through  the  haze  of  cigar  smoke  in  the  dim 
light,  the  club  paintings  on  the  walls  assumed  the  appear- 
ance of  old  masters :  at  least  to  the  eyes  of  the  celebrants. 
Mellow  was  the  word.  "  For  he 's  a  jolly  good  f ello-o-w," 
[  168  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

they  sang  again  and  again  with  ever  deepening  feeling. 
The  attenuated  figure  of  Steve  Foster  was  perceived 
weaving  about  in  a  dance  of  his  own  improvising,  his 
arms  held  like  a  kangaroo's,  his  long  hands  flopping 
from  the  wrists. 

George  rose  and  got  to  the  head  of  the  stairs.  "Good- 
night, fellows,"  he  shouted,  and  then  two  of  them 
clutched  him,  and  the  others  gathered  round;  consterna- 
tion showed  on  their  faces.  "  You  're  not  going  yet !  It 's 
only  about  eleven.  Stay,  and  we'll  have  a  meeting  of  the 
Aurora  Club." 

It  had  been  George  who  had  originated  that  fictitious 
institution;  he  might  be  supposed,  therefore,  to  have  a 
feeling  of  loyalty  to  it. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "But  I  have  some  work  early 
to-morrow  morning  —  it  would  n't  be  fair  to  the  pa- 
tients. I 've  had  a  bully  time.  Good-night,  fellows." 

Descending  the  two  flights  of  stairs  he  heard  Steve 
Foster  screaming  after  him  over  the  banisters, "  Scelerat  I 
oh,  Scelerat  / "  A  chorus  was  in  full  swing  when  he  closed 
the  door  of  the  club  behind  him. 

His  boisterous  days  and  nights  were  over;  he  walked 
across  the  Common  to  his  rooms,  breathing  in  the  sweet 
cool  air  and  thinking  tenderly  of  Dorothy. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  GREATEST  OF  ALL  DAYS 

AFTER  breakfast  on  the  morning  of  his  wedding 
day,  George  took  his  surgical  kit  and  walked  as 
usual  through  the  Public  Garden  to  Dr.  Armazet's 
hospital.  He  was  early  and  the  morning  was  fine,  so  he 
walked  slowly.  He  wondered  if  any  of  those  whom  he 
passed  could  detect  from  his  appearance  that  this  was  a 
day  of  great  significance  to  him.  He  himself  was  serenely 
rather  than  exultantly  aware  of  it.  His  bride  was  docile 
and  adoring;  he  contemplated  her  in  his  thoughts  with 
a  tranquil  pleasure.  What  gentle  gray  eyes  she  had  — 
and  they  could  sparkle,  too;  they  would  be  both  gentle 
and  sparkling  when  next  they  looked  into  his,  for  that 
would  be  when  she  joined  hands  with  him  before  the 
clergyman.  And  how  soft  and  sweet  was  her  voice! 
Soft  and  sweet  would  it  be,  indeed,  when  next  he  heard 
it  musically  murmuring  the  responses  that  should  make 
her  his  wife.  Never  in  his  thoughts  of  Rosamond  had 
passion  merged  into  tenderness  more  than  now  in  his 
thought  of  Dorothy.  The  trees  of  the  Garden  were  in 
their  full  October  glory  —  it  would  be  a  shining  world 
of  blue  and  gold  into  which  he  would  take  his  bride. 
New  Hampshire  hills  and  lakes  were  awaiting  them; 
there  would  be  tramps  along  roads  glowing  with  sumach 
and  oak,  climbs  through  enchanted  forests  to  purple 
summits,  canoeing  on  breeze-swept  waters.  Then  back 
[  170  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

to  work  and  usefulness  and  a  romantic  domesticity  — 
for,  after  all,  to  the  young  lover  on  the  brink  of  marriage, 
what  is  more  truly  romantic  than  this  novel  domesticity 
into  which  he  is  to  plunge? 

In  his  white  duck  uniform,  bending  over  patients, 
dressing  and  bandaging  wounds,  George  forgot  the  day, 
the  girl,  the  romance.  The  nurses,  who  remembered, 
watched  him  with  smiling  and  admiring  eyes.  Late  in 
the  morning  one  of  them  came  to  him  eagerly.  "A 
telephone  call  for  you,  Dr.  Brandon,"  she  said.  "It's 
Miss  Vasmer." 

George  stepped  out  into  the  hall;  the  telephone  was 
in  an  awkwardly  exposed  place.  Aware  of  the  interested 
audience  in  the  next  room,  he  was  somewhat  constrained 
in  his  answers.  And  he  would  have  liked  not  to  be  —  es- 
pecially when  she  said,  "Did  I  interrupt  you,  George? 
I  felt  I  wanted  to  hear  your  voice." 

How  hard  to  reply  to  that,  with  four  alert  young 
women,  to  say  nothing  of  that  feminine  entity,  Central, 
pricking  up  their  ears! 

"Did  you?"  It  sounded  tame,  he  knew.  "I  wanted 
to  hear  yours." 

"Are  you  feeling  excited  about  this  afternoon?" 

"Yes,  are  you?" 

"Awfully  excited.  Guess  who  are  to  be  at  the  wed- 
ding?" 

"Tell  me.   I  can't  guess." 

"Rosamond  and  Graham." 

"I  did  n't  know  they  had  come  back." 

"They  got  in  last  night.  Rosamond  telephoned  just 
now  to  ask  if  I  would  be  at  home  this  afternoon.  I  told 
[  171  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

her  if  she  came  early  enough  —  about  three  —  as  I  was 
going  on  my  wedding  journey  after  that.  My  dear,  I 
could  hear  the  silence  —  it  was  so  blank ! " 

"Why  was  it  such  a  surprise  to  her?"  George  asked. 

"She  and  Graham  had  been  on  a  walking- trip  in  Scot- 
land and  had  never  got  our  letters.  When  I  told  her  it 
was  you,  she  said  she  could  n't  believe  it.  But  she 
thought  it  was  fine,  and  she's  coming  with  Graham. 
You  don't  mind  my  asking  her,  do  you,  George?  " 

"No,  indeed." 

"Only  three  hours  now,  George!" 

"It  goes  slowly!" 

"It  would  n't  if  we  were  together." 

"Shall  I  come  to  you?" 

"No.  I  must  never  take  you  from  your  work.  That's 
the  first  rule.  And  I'm  breaking  it  this  minute!  Now 
I  'm  going  for  a  ride.  While  I  gallop  I  shall  be  thinking 
of  you,  George." 

"Don't  let  your  thoughts  run  away  with  you!  To-day 
you  must  gallop  with  special  care." 

The  nurses  were  smiling  when  he  entered  the  room, 
but  he  was  not  annoyed  by  it;  he  felt  that  to-day  every 
one  was  privileged  to  smile  at  him  and  with  him.  The 
words  over  the  telephone  had  come  like  a  refreshing 
breeze.  He  cared  not  at  all  that  Rosamond  and  her  hus- 
band were  to  be  present  at  his  marriage;  he  could  face 
Rosamond  without  awkwardness  and  Graham  with 
indifference.  Dorothy  riding  away  for  the  last  gallop  of 
her  girlhood  caught  his  imagination,  his  emotion,  and 
Dorothy,  face  aglow  and  eyes  shining,  galloping  back  to 
give  herself  into  her  husband's  arms,  summoned  all  his 
[  172  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

tenderness.  No  other  woman  could  ever  again  move  his 
heart. 

His  work  for  the  day  was  finished.  Bidding  his  pa- 
tients good-bye,  he  received  wan,  bright-eyed  smiles 
and  toneless  yet  sincere  expressions  of  good  wishes. 
From  the  nurses  he  had  last  words  of  shy  congratulation. 
How  kind  people  are,  was  his  thought  as  he  went  down 
the  steps;  how  ready  their  sympathy  with  another's 
joy !  And  he  wished  that  all  the  patients  might  recover 
in  a  twinkling  and  that  all  the  nurses  might  soon  be 
united  to  husbands. 

The  noonday  sun  was  more  bright  on  the  Garden  than 
when  George  had  passed  through  early  in  the  morning. 
More  golden,  more  delusive  was  the  glory  of  all  the 
withered  leaves. 

He  lunched  in  his  room,  called  in  the  servants  and  gave 
them  parting  gifts,  and  was  dressing  as  a  man  dresses 
but  once  in  his  life,  when  Steve  Foster  entered. 

"I  thought  I  'd  look  in  and  see  if  I  could  be  of  any  use 
to  you  at  the  last  minute,"  Steve  said.  "Anything  I  can 
do  like  packing  a  bag  or  taking  down  the  notes  of  things 
that  you'd  like  to  have  attended  to  after  you're  gone?" 

"Thanks,  Steve,  old  man,  I  don't  believe  there's  a 
thing.  Just  sit  and  chin  with  me  till  the  carriage  comes. 
I  suppose  I'm  getting  ready  too  soon,  but  I've  always 
had  a  feeling  that  if  ever  a  man  should  be  on  time,  it 
should  be  at  his  own  wedding." 

"Yes,  I'd  be  no  dilatory  bridegroom,  you  can  bet," 
remarked  Foster.  "Look  here,  coming  across  the  Com- 
mon !  A  bunch  from  the  Club  —  Sterrett  and  Morris  and 
Ward  and  Wyman  —  I  guess  I  'm  not  the  only  one  that 
[  173  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

wants  to  see  you  started  right.  Sterrett's  carrying  some- 
thing that  looks  like  a  bottle." 

"You're  always  hopeful,  Steve,  —  always  seeing 
things!  But  there's  rum  in  that  sideboard;  you'll  do 
me  a  favor  if  you'll  pour  out  anything  you  like." 

"Ordinarily  at  this  hour  I  would  n't  think  of  it.  But 
in  view  of  the  occasion  — "  With  a  pony  of  brandy  he 
acknowledged  the  occasion. 

And  he  was  right  about  the  destination  of  the  four, 
and  about  Sterrett's  burden.  It  was  a  bottle  —  a  bottle 
of  champagne. 

"We  agreed  that  if  we  couldn't  drink  with  you  at 
your  wedding,  we'd  have  a  glass  with  you  just  before 
it,"  Sterrett  explained,  as  he  unwrapped  his  parcel. 
"I've  had  it  on  ice  at  the  club  for  the  last  half- 
hour." 

George,  with  one  flap  of  his  collar  buttoned,  set  out 
the  glasses.  "A  handsome  thought,"  he  said.  "And  I 
wish  I  could  have  you  all  at  my  side  during  the  ceremony. 
That's  the  only  thing  I  regret  about  this  wedding  — 
the  absence  of  my  friends." 

Sterrett  carefully  filled  the  glasses.  "We  shall  be 
thinking  of  you.  Here's  to  you  both,  George." 

Round  the  circle  the  glasses  clinked  and  were  drained 
in  a  meditative  silence.  It  lasted  while  George  resumed 
operations  before  his  mirror. 

"You  won't  go  back  on  us  all  at  the  club,  I  hope," 
said  Sterrett.  "  You  '11  still  come  round  once  in  a  while?  " 

"Whenever  I  can,"  George  answered.  "I  don't  mean 
to  lose  you  fellows." 

He  finished  his  dressing.  "Yes,  you'll  do,"  said 
[  174  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Wyman.  "You  look  the  complete  bridegroom.  No- 
body would  ever  take  you  for  anything  else." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Ward,  "I  bet  you'll  be  spotted  all 
through  your  honeymoon." 

"  You're  all  right,  George,"  said  Steve  Foster. 
"  When  she  sees  you  she  won't  be  sorry." 

George  looked  at  his  watch.  "Quarter  of  an  hour 
more.  You  don't  see  a  carriage  down  below,  do  you, 
Steve?" 

Foster  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  window  and  drew  it 
in  again.  "Yes,  it's  at  the  door." 

"Then  I  think  I'll  be  going.  As  I  said  to  Steve,  I 
can't  run  a  chance  of  being  late  at  my  own  wedding." 

"We'll  see  you  on  your  way,"  said  Sterrett.  "Sure 
you  have  the  ring?" 

All  five  crowded  into  the  elevator  with  him;  each  of 
the  five  solemnly  shook  his  hand  before  he  entered  the 
carriage.  His  last  glimpse  of  them  was  as  they  stood  in  a 
semicircle  on  the  sidewalk,  congratulatory,  yet  subdued. 

It  was  so  short  a  distance  to  Mrs.  Vasmer's  house  and 
the  day  was  so  fine  that  to  drive  seemed  absurd.  But 
George  had  felt  that  to  walk  to  his  wedding  would  be 
too  ostentatious  a  piece  of  simplicity;  it  would  amount 
almost  to  an  indecency.  To  a  well-brought-up  Bostonian 
of  George's  generation  there  is  no  difference  between 
publicity  and  indecency.  At  any  rate,  on  this  brief, 
momentous  drive  George  secluded  himself  decently  in 
the  musty  dimness  of  the  Charles  Street  hack.  Decently, 
too,  rapidly  and  decently,  without  permitting  himself 
to  be  a  spectacle  for  possibly  curious  and  skulking  eyes, 
he  slipped  out  of  the  hack  and  into  the  Vasmer  vestibule, 
I  175  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

and  although  he  was  still  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ahead  of 
time  the  door  opened  to  him  mysteriously,  spontane- 
ously. 

For  the  next  ten  minutes  he  was  immured  in  a  small 
upper  room;  there  presently  the  clergyman  joined  him 
and  put  on  his  surplice,  chatting  meanwhile  with  pro- 
fessional ease  about  inconsequential  things  —  the  state 
of  the  weather,  and  the  ducks  that  he  had  seen  flying 
south,  and  the  color  of  the  trees  out  in  the  country. 
October,  said  the  clergyman,  was  a  fine  month  to  be 
married  in.  George  watched  him  and  thought  that  it 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  seen  a  clergyman  getting 
into  his  surplice.  In  a  remote,  subconscious  way  he  was 
surprised  to  find  that  priestly  garments  were  donned 
in  a  matter-of-fact  and  unceremonious  manner. 

"It's  time  for  us  to  be  going  down,"  said  the  clergy- 
man. 

George  followed  him  obediently  out  into  the  hall. 
Then,  wonderfully,  from  a  room  at  the  head  of  the  stairs 
issued  Dorothy,  in  her  bridal  white;  she  wore  no  veil, 
her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes  were  softly  radiant  as 
they  looked  at  George,  and  her  lips  trembled  in  a  smile. 
She  slipped  her  hand  in  his  arm  and  with  steady  step 
accompanied  him  down  the  stairs  behind  the  clergyman. 
The  light  pressure  of  her  fingers,  the  perfume  of  her  shin- 
big  loveliness,  the  light  in  her  gray  eyes,  and  the  bloom 
of  her  lips  and  cheeks  as  she  looked  up  at  George  set 
all  the  strings  of  feeling  in  him  quivering.  He  laid  his 
hand  on  her  finger  tips  and  whispered,  "My  lovely  little 
bride!"  She  whispered  in  reply,  "I  love  you,  dear." 

Following  the  clergyman,  they  entered  the  big  draw- 
I  176  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

ing-room.  A  little  group  of  people  was  assembled  there. 
Rosamond,  standing  close  by  the  door,  was  the  first 
person  to  meet  George's  gaze.  For  one  instant  they 
looked  gravely  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  in  that  in- 
stant George  had  a  flashing  vision  of  the  moment  when 
Rosamond,  passing  down  the  aisle  to  her  wedding,  had 
intercepted  his  glance.  The  vision  passed;  he  and 
Dorothy  side  by  side  faced  the  clergyman,  who  stood  in 
front  of  a  fireplace  about  which  were  heaped  and  wreathed 
white  roses  and  laurel. 

The  clergyman  was  pronouncing  the  opening  words  of 
the  service.  He  was  not  one  of  those  who  read  the  mar- 
riage service  in  a  tone  that  emphasizes  to  a  frightened 
pair  the  dreadful,  irreparable  nature  of  their  act.  His 
voice  was  reassuring,  pleasantly  confidential;  it  seemed 
to  remind  them  that  they  were  being  married,  not  buried, 
and  to  intimate  an  approving  sympathy  with  the  joy- 
ousness  with  which  they  made  their  promises.  In  spite 
of  that,  sobs  from  some  one  near  by  were  once  or  twice 
audible,  and  George  felt  without  seeing  that  Mrs.  Vas- 
mer  had  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  And  twice, 
for  all  the  sweet  fearlessness  in  her  low  voice,  Doro- 
thy's lips  trembled  —  once  when  the  clergyman  ad- 
dressed the  solemn,  searching  question  to  her,  and 
again  when  she  looked  at  George  and  offered  him  her 
finger  for  the  ring. 

They  were  pronounced  man  and  wife. 

The  clergyman,  suddenly  beaming,  shook  hands,  first 

with  Dorothy,  then  with  George.     They  turned  and 

faced  the  others.     Mrs.  Vasmer  was  at  once  in  her 

daughter's  arms,  and  in  a  few  moments  delivered  her- 

[    177    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

self  up  to  George.  She  was  speechless  with  emotion,  but 
in  the  relieved  hum  and  rustle  that  now  broke  forth 
her  speechlessness  went  unrecognized.  Hetty  Mallory, 
following  her  close,  was  not  so  contained.  Hetty  cer- 
tainly was  never  afraid  of  the  sound  of  her  own  voice, 
and  she  saw  no  reason  why  it  should  be  subdued 
at  a  wedding  —  at  so  eminently  satisfactory  a  wed- 
ding. 

"My  dear,  if  you  knew  how  sweet  you  look!  And  it's 
the  right  way  to  be  married  —  just  your  very  dearest 
round  you,  the  people  that  really  care.  And  oh,  I  can't 
tell  you  how  glad  I  am!  It's  the  dearest  wedding,  the 
dearest  room  for  it!"  And  so  on,  and  so  on,  copiously 
from  Hetty. 

Philip  Mallory  followed  her,  then  came  some  aunts 
and  uncles,  then  Rosamond  and  Graham.  Of  the  dozen 
guests  they  were  the  only  ones  not  immediately  con- 
nected with  the  family  of  either  bride  or  groom. 

"Dear  Dorothy!"  Rosamond  said  and  kissed  her. 
Somehow  there  seemed  nothing  else  to  say. 

"Were  you  surprised?" 

"Yes.  Awfully  surprised." 

It  was  an  awkward  moment;  Graham  came  in  with, 
"I'm  perfectly  delighted,  Mrs.  Brandon,"  and  Rosa- 
mond moved  on  to  George. 

"Sudden  and  quick  —  we've  taken  a  leaf  out  of  your 
book,  Rosamond,"  George  said  with  a  smile.  "We're 
going  to  live  round  the  corner  on  Marlborough  Street; 
I  hope  you  '11  be  near  us." 

"I  wish  we  might  be.  But  we're  going  out  of  town  — 
out  near  Dover."  She  hesitated  a  moment  and  said  in 
I  178  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

a  lower  voice,  "Now  that  you've  married  Dorothy, 
you  're  twice  my  friend,  George.  She 's  the  best 
there  is." 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "And  you're  a  brick,  Rosa- 
mond." He  gripped  her  hand  and  then  her  husband's, 
and  Rosamond  stood  aside,  with  a  queer  stinging  in  her 
heart  and  a  queer  contentment  there  too. 

It  was  a  rather  stiff  little  party;  the  very  smallness 
of  it  in  the  big  house  made  gayety  impossible.  Dorothy 
and  George  radiated  joyousness,  Hetty  Mallory  was 
jubilantly  happy,  Rosamond  contrived  to  be  conscious 
of  her  contentment,  which  was  wrung  occasionally  by 
twinges  of  something  that  she  did  not  regard  as  jealousy. 
But  Mrs.  Vasmer,  try  as  she  might,  was  a  forlorn  figure, 
and  the  aunts  and  uncles  contributed  no  great  respon- 
siveness. Possibly  they  felt  that  Dorothy  might  have 
waited  longer  after  her  father's  death,  or  that  she  might 
have  done  better  than  marry  a  young  man  of  small  for- 
tune and  a  migratory  record.  No  doubt  they  were  too 
sympathetic  with  Mrs.  Vasmer's  foretaste  of  loss  and 
loneliness  to  adopt  a  festive  mood  in  a  situation  which 
she  dominated  all  the  more  when  she  tried  to  put  her- 
self in  the  background.  Dorothy  cut  the  cake  and  Mrs. 
Vasmer's  brother,  Mr.  Hugh  Clarke,  proposed  the  health 
of  the  bride  and  groom ;  that  promoted  a  little  flicker  of 
vivacity.  But  although  the  food  was  delicious,  no  one 
seemed  to  have  an  appetite  for  it,  and  opened  bottles 
of  champagne  stood  quietly  sighing  away  their  souls. 
Rosamond,  oppressed  after  a  little  while  by  the  atmos- 
phere of  dullness,  went  to  Dorothy  to  make  her  de- 
parture. 

f    179    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"But  I  'm  just  going  up  to  dress,"  Dorothy  exclaimed. 
"And  I  want  you  to  come  up  with  me." 

That  desire  was  not  to  be  resisted,  though  Rosamond 
felt  sorry  for  Graham. 

In  her  room  Dorothy  rattled  away  to  Rosamond, 
excited,  happy.  Yes,  their  honeymoon  would  have  to 
be  a  short  one;  George  was  so  very  busy;  Dr.  Armazet 
was  a  perfect  pig  the  way  he  took  up  all  George's  time  — 
much  as  ever  that  he  let  him  get  married. 

"Dr.  Armazet?"  questioned  Rosamond;  and  the  ex- 
planation freed  her  from  the  sense  of  responsibility  for 
interfering  with  a  man's  career  which  had  haunted  her 
thoughts.  Thankfulness  and  contentment  spread  within 
her;  she  surprised  Dorothy  by  suddenly  hugging  her 
close,  kissing  her,  and  exclaiming,  "  Oh,  Dorothy,  dear, 
you're  both  going  to  be  happy  —  and  I  'm  so  glad ! " 

"I  hope  I'm  not  being  cruel  and  heartless  to  poor 
mother,"  Dorothy  said.  "Poor  dear,  she  tries  to  comfort 
herself;  she  feels  that  father  is  with  us  to-day  —  giving 
us  his  blessing;  oh,  if  he  only  were!  I  want  to  believe  it, 
too;  do  you  suppose  our  generation  can  believe,  the  way 
people  used  to,  Rosamond?" 

"No,"  Rosamond  answered,  "I  don't.  But  I  am  sure 
that  some  things  are  as  sacred  as  they  ever  were  —  love 
and  marriage." 

"So  many  people  don't  seem  to  believe  even  that," 
sighed  Dorothy.  "I'm  glad  I'm  not  one  of  them.  — 
Oh,  I  have  n't  shown  you  my  ring."  She  held  out  her 
hand  and  let  Rosamond  examine  and  admire  the  dia- 
mond. "And  this  brooch  is  George's  wedding  present 
to  me;  is  n't  it  lovely!" 

[    180    J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

It  was  an  aquamarine,  large  and  lucid  and  lustrous  — 
and  the  sight  of  it  suddenly  produced  one  of  those  sharp 
stabs  in  the  heart  of  Rosamond's  contentment.  In- 
stinctively she  laid  her  hand  on  her  own  aquamarine 
pendant. 

"Oh,  you're  wearing  one,  too,"  Dorothy  exclaimed. 
"I  never  saw  it  before.  Was  that  one  of  your  wedding 
presents?" 

"Yes."  Rosamond  calmly  laid  her  pendant  beside  the 
brooch.  "Yours  is  much  larger  and  handsomer.  That's 
as  it  should  be  —  a  man's  present  to  his  bride.  I  do  think 
George  has  wonderful  taste  in  stones." 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door;  then  a  maid's  voice 
said,  "Dr.  Brandon  is  all  ready,  Mrs.  Brandon." 

"Good-bye,  you  dearest  girl."  Dorothy  clung  to 
Rosamond  a  moment;  Rosamond  clung  to  her.  Then 
Rosamond  went  alone  down  the  stairs. 

Her  appearance  caused  an  immediate  movement  of 
eagerness  in  the  scattered  groups;  Mrs.  Vasmer,  whose 
sense  of  her  duties  as  hostess  had  chained  her  to  the 
drawing-room,  when  her  heart  yearned  to  the  dressing- 
room,  hastened  to  take  up  a  position  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase.  Soon  Dorothy  and  George  descended  — 
Dorothy  just  as  radiant  in  black  as  she  had  been  in 
white,  and  somehow  the  perception  of  that  struck  a  pang 
to  her  mother's  heart.  One  swift  embrace,  two  quick  and 
nestling  kisses,  and  her  girl  was  gone. 

"Was  it  rather  dismal  for  you,  Graham?"  asked 
Rosamond,  as  they  drove  away.  "I  was  sorry  to  leave 
you  all  alone." 

"It  wasn't  bad.  I  found  that  Mr.  Clarke  had  been 
I  181  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

in  the  Twentieth  Massachusetts  —  went  all  through  the 
Wilderness  Campaign;  I  had  quite  an  interesting  talk 
with  him.  He  has  some  mighty  sensible  views  about  the 
militia.  I—" 

"Dorothy  looked  sweet;  she  is  sweet.  But  it  seemed 
to  me  an  awfully  dismal  party." 

Graham  glanced  at  his  wife  and  said  after  a  moment, 
quite  timidly,  "You  mean  —  you  —  you  didn't  quite 
like  to  see  him  married?" 

"Yes.  I'm  jealous."  She  glanced  at  her  husband's 
troubled  face.  "And  Graham,  dear,  his  wedding  present 
to  her  was  an  aquamarine  —  bigger  and  handsomer 
than  name!"  Her  voice  as  she  announced  it  was  queru- 
lous, on  the  verge  of  tearful. 

Graham  burst  into  laughter  and  squeezed  her  hand 
caressingly.  And  then  the  tears  started  from  her  eyes, 
and  she  cried,  — 

"Oh,  I  know  it's  silly,  Graham,  dear,  and  I  do  love 
only  you  —  and  I  suppose  under  the  circumstances  it 
was  just  the  right  and  proper  thing  for  him  to  have  done 
—  and  yet  it  made  me  feel  so  badly  —  so  badly ! " 


CHAPTER  XX 

ROSAMOND  DWELLS  UPON  HER  DESTINY 

THE  place  where  Graham  and  Rosamond  made  their 
home  was  in  the  Dover  hills,  forty  minutes  by  train 
from  Boston.  Five  years  before  Graham  had  bought  the 
abandoned  farm  and  renovated  the  stables  and  house. 
The  hunt  club  of  which  he  was  a  leading  and  faithful 
member  had  its  quarters  less  than  a  mile  away.  Graham 
had  given  his  place  the  name,  "Sunset  Acres";  lying  on 
a  westerly  slope  it  faced  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  a  pine 
grove  over  which  on  clear,  calm  evenings  the  sunset 
light  seemed  to  linger  and  slumber. 

Here  he  had  spent  more  time  than  in  the  lodgings  on 
Mount  Vernon  Street,  which  he  had  retained  until  his 
marriage.  Rosamond  had  been  enchanted  with  the  idea 
of  living  in  the  country;  she  had  been  enchanted  with 
the  house  and  the  place,  which  Graham  had  restored 
to  some  trimness.  The  house  had  to  be  enlarged;  the 
work  had  been  well  under  way  at  the  time  of  their  mar- 
riage, and  they  returned  to  find  it  completed. 

It  was  a  two-story  wooden  house,  L-shaped,  painted 
white,  with  French  windows  opening  on  a  wide  veranda, 
at  the  end  of  which  a  glassed-in  sun  parlor  was  gay  with 
flowering  plants.  In  the  angle  of  the  ell,  the  driveway 
swung  round  a  circular  grass  plot  and  then  curved  down 
between  rows  of  shrubs  to  the  road.  On  the  slope  above 
[  183  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

the  house  was  an  apple  orchard;  an  upstairs  balcony, 
that  Graham  had  converted  into  a  sleeping-porch,  was 
partly  sheltered  by  the  spreading  top  of  an  ancient 
Baldwin  tree.  Within  the  house,  on  the  first  floor,  the 
living-room  occupied  the  whole  of  the  wing,  a  big,  low- 
studded  room  with  a  wide  fireplace  and  massive  chim- 
ney breast  flanked  by  books  from  wainscot  to  ceiling.  A 
tiny  hall,  out  of  which  ascended  a  straight  and  narrow 
little  staircase,  divided  living-room  from  dining-room. 
Dark  red  curtains  and  rich-colored  rugs  and  dull-finished 
mahogany  softened  the  sharpness  of  the  light  that 
streamed  in  at  the  long  windows  and  glanced  from  pol- 
ished floor  and  cold  white  surfaces. 

It  was  a  snug  and  comfortable  house  for  a  newly  mar- 
ried pair.  And  altogether  it  was  a  very  complete  coun- 
try place;  it  had  its  artesian  well  and  windmill,  its  barn 
and  poultry  yard  and  remote  piggery,  its  vegetable  gar- 
den, orchard,  hay-field,  wood-lot,  and  neat  stone  walls. 
Rosamond  declared  that  she  did  not  mind  the  loneliness. 
They  were  three  miles  from  the  village,  half  a  mile  from 
the  railroad,  but  scattered  about  among  the  hills  within 
walking  distance  were  the  newly  built  houses  of  other 
adventurous  newly  wedded  persons.  Rosamond  counted 
on  having  friends  out  to  lunch  with  her  during  the  week 
and  on  coming  in  to  Boston  frequently  herself;  she  would 
always  have  week-end  parties;  and  she  would  find  occu- 
pation enough  in  learning  to  manage  the  farm;  she  as- 
sured Graham  that  she  meant  to  take  that  care  off  his 
hands.  Graham  laughed  and  said  that  John  Wilkes,  the 
farmer  who  was  their  nearest  neighbor  and  who  worked 
the  land  on  shares,  had  already  done  that  for  him;  but 
[  184  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Rosamond  was  of  the  opinion  that  with  a  little  experi- 
ence she  could  manage  more  economically. 

No,  she  was  not  lonely,  nor  did  time  hang  heavy  on 
her  hands.  She  and  Graham  were  well  settled  before  the 
hunting  season  was  over;  she  took  some  of  those  early 
morning  rides  with  him.  There  were  two  hunters  in  the 
the  stable;  she  loved  riding,  and  on  the  days  when  she 
could  not  ride  with  Graham  she  liked  to  feel  a  double 
responsibility  for  exercising  the  horses.  She  gave  one 
of  the  hunt  breakfasts  and  felt  triumphant  because  it 
was  a  success;  people  admired  the  house  and  seemed  to 
like  her  —  and  they  all  had  such  an  obviously  high 
opinion  of  Graham !  And  as  the  days  went  by,  she  found 
that  she  liked  him  better  and  better  herself.  His  pre- 
occupations, that  had  been  so  disconcerting  on  the 
wedding  trip,  were  less  frequent;  now  that  she  was  not 
seeing  him  every  minute,  he  did  not  wear  her  patience 
thin;  the  place  supplied  them  with  things  to  do  together, 
things  in  which  they  were  equally  interested.  Rosamond 
found  herself  reluctant  every  morning  to  have  her 
husband  leave  the  house,  expectant  every  afternoon 
when  the  time  for  his  return  drew  near;  and  she  re- 
membered with  a  sense  of  happy  contrast  certain  honey- 
moon mornings  when  she  would  have  been  perfectly 
delighted  to  have  Graham  go  away  and  stay  away. 
Often  during  the  day  she  would  visualize  his  face,  in 
different  expressions  that  she  knew,  and  recall  the  sound 
of  his  voice  and  of  his  laugh.  She  resorted  to  this  exer- 
cise of  memory  and  imagination  more  frequently  now 
than  in  the  time  of  her  engagement.  Thursday  was  her 
blue  day,  for  that  evening  Graham  always  remained  in 
I  185  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

town  to  drill  his  Troop,  and  though  her  father  or  Ruth 
usually  came  out  to  pass  the  night  with  her  and  keep  her 
from  feeling  lonely,  Rosamond  experienced  invariably 
a  disturbing  apprehensiveness.  Graham  was  a  wonder- 
ful rider,  but  at  these  drill  meetings  he  did  such  dan- 
gerous things !  She  wished  he  were  safe  at  home  with  her. 
And  yet  she  would  not  have  had  him  give  up  his  brilliant 
equestrian  performances.  They  made  her  all  the  more 
proud  of  him.  Only,  in  the  nights  when  she  imagined  him 
rolled  under  the  hoofs  of  the  galloping  steeds,  she  lay 
awake  in  her  bed  and  waited  and  waited  —  waited 
until  she  heard  the  distant  whistle  as  the  last  train  from 
Boston  slowed  down  at  the  station;  waited  until  she 
heard  steps  on  the  veranda  and  the  closing  of  the  door; 
waited  until  Graham's  arms  were  round  her  and  his  kiss 
pressed  against  her  lips;  then,  thankfully,  happily,  she 
closed  her  eyes  and  drifted  into  sleep. 

She  wondered  how  she  could  ever  have  doubted  her 
love  for  Graham.  Those  days  seemed  very,  very  long 
ago. 

Yet  there  were  occasions  when  she  was  aware  that 
George  Brandon's  charm  for  her  still  existed,  when  she 
rebelled  against  the  tyranny  of  sentimental  memories. 
Sometimes  Dorothy  came  to  see  her,  and  then  Rosa- 
mond would  think,  "How  strange  that  she  should  be 
more  to  George  than  I  am!  He's  known  me  so  much 
longer,  so  much  better,  and  he  cared  for  me  so  much. 
I  wonder  if  he 's  satisfied.  I  wonder  if  Dorothy  is  satis- 
fied." 

His  transfer  of  allegiance  constituted  Rosamond's 
only  reason  for  feeling  unsatisfied.  She  did  not  see  him 
I  186  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

often;  he  seemed  never  free  to  make  an  expedition  into 
the  country.  In  the  little  Marlborough  Street  house 
Rosamond  often  lunched  with  Dorothy.  These  luncheons 
were  early,  for  by  half-past  one  the  dining-room  had 
to  present  the  appearance  of  a  waiting-room  for  patients. 
Sometimes  on  these  occasions  Rosamond  encountered 
George.  He  usually  came  in  when  she  and  Dorothy  had 
nearly  finished.  He  ate  rapidly,  chatted  rapidly,  and  at 
the  earliest  moment  excused  himself  in  order  to  with- 
draw  into  his  office. 

"He  must  be  very  busy,"  Rosamond  said  once  when 
his  departure  seemed  quite  abrupt.  She  felt  a  little 
piqued  —  remembering  in  days  past  how  easy  it  had 
been  to  hold  his  interest. 

"  He  is,"  Dorothy  answered.  And  the  air  of  pride  with 
which  she  stated  the  fact  roused  in  Rosamond  a  sense 
of  rivalry,  a  desire  to  establish  the  point  that  Graham 
was  a  harder-working  man  than  George. 

"You  don't  know  how  lucky  you  are,  having  your 
husband  at  home  for  luncheon  every  day,"  she  said. 
"And  it  must  make  such  a  pleasant  break  for  him.  Poor 
Graham  has  only  time  usually  to  stand  up  at  a  counter 
and  eat  a  sandwich.  And  he  never  gets  home  in  the 
evening  until  almost  seven  o'clock." 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  replied  Dorothy.  "You're  lucky  to 
be  able  to  count  on  him  then  —  and  he 's  lucky  to  be 
able  to  count  on  his  dinner  hour.  Half  the  time  I  dine 
alone.  Last  week  George  spent  two  whole  nights  with  a 
patient  that  Dr.  Armazet  thought  needed  to  be  watched 
every  minute.  How  the  poor  boy  stands  it  I  don't  know. 
Do  you  think  he's  looking  very  fagged,  Rosamond?" 
[  187  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"No,  not  in  the  least." 

Rosamond  had  a  bewildered  feeling  of  resentment; 
she  wondered  if  she  should  ever  accustom  herself  to 
Dorothy's  proprietary  tone  in  speaking  of  George.  And 
it  irritated  her  vaguely  to  feel  that  when  she  and  George 
were  together  her  self  consciousness  exceeded  his;  she 
realized  that  his  interest  in  Dorothy  and  in  his  work  had 
effaced  her,  and  she  was  obliged  to  admit  to  herself  that 
when  she  went  to  lunch  with  Dorothy  she  looked  forward 
with  undue  expectancy  to  seeing  George. 

Dorothy  enlarged  upon  his  work  and  Rosamond  lis- 
tened, divided  between  jealousy  and  interest.  It  was 
work  that  she  could  understand,  —  better,  she  felt,  than 
Dorothy,  who  declared  that  she  never  let  George  com- 
municate to  her  any  graphic  surgical  details.  Rosamond 
had  no  squeamishness  in  that  way.  She  could  have  fol- 
lowed with  the  thrill  of  excitement  a  narrative,  however 
pathological,  that  illustrated  qualities  which  she  ad- 
mired. Even  while  Dorothy  recounted  to  her  the  evi- 
dences of  George's  success,  Rosamond  thought,  "What 
a  pity  that  she  is  n't  more  appreciative!" 

The  exclamation  recoiled  upon  herself.  She  had  ear- 
nestly tried  to  establish  an  intelligent  understanding 
of  Graham's  work;  she  had  learned  that  he  derived  the 
chief  part  of  his  income  from  an  annual  retaining  fee 
as  counsel  for  a  large  manufacturing  corporation,  and 
that  his  practice  concerned  itself  principally  with  the 
affairs  of  corporations;  it  all  seemed  to  her  very  intricate 
and  undoubtedly  it  required  intellectual  processes  of  a 
high  order.  But  she  had  to  confess  that  she  was  more 
interested  in  the  remuneration  that  Graham  received 
[  188  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

for  his  work  than  in  the  work  itself.  She  had  not  a  sor- 
did mind,  she  was  innocently  proud  of  her  husband's 
prosperity  and  success.  Every  fresh  illustration  of  it 
pleased  her  and  brought  him  a  hug  of  delight.  After  all, 
they  had  subjects  enough  to  talk  about  —  though  on 
this  particular  afternoon,  when  she  came  from  Dorothy's 
house,  Rosamond  could  not  help  thinking  how  perfect 
it  would  be  if  Graham  were  a  doctor;  she  could  have 
been  so  much  more  his  companion  then. 

That  evening  at  Sunset  Acres  there  was  a  family 
party:  Rosamond's  father  and  her  sister  Ruth  and  her 
brother  Ralph  all  were  there.  Ralph,  a  freshman  at 
Harvard,  had  come  over  to  spend  the  night  and  follow 
the  hounds  the  next  morning;  he  sought  every  oppor- 
tunity to  attract  the  favorable  attention  of  his  brother- 
in-law,  whom  he  admired  enormously;  with  Graham's 
eye  on  him  he  rode  with  a  recklessness  which  it  frightened 
him  afterwards  to  think  of,  for  he  was  not  a  good  rider; 
with  Graham's  eyes  on  him,  he  discoursed  modestly  of 
his  tackles  on  the  football  field;  his  ambition  was  to  ride 
well  enough  and  grow  old  enough  to  be  taken  into  the 
Troop.  Having  done  and  said  all  that  was  possible  to 
commend  himself  without  seeming  too  openly  asser- 
tive, he  would  sit  quietly  looking  at  Graham,  listening, 
watching,  quite  openly  a  worshiper.  He  thought  better 
of  his  sister  since  she  had  married  Graham;  he  had  al- 
ways been  afraid  that  Rosamond  would  marry  some  one 
whom  he  should  be  obliged  to  term  a  "dub"  —  and  by 
a  dub  he  meant  every  man  who  could  not  sail  a  boat, 
ride  a  horse,  play  a  fair  game  of  tennis,  swim  the  "crawl " 
stroke,  and  enjoy  the  humor  of  the  Rogers  Brothers. 
I  189  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Indeed,  every  one  in  the  Ramsay  family  admired 
Graham  —  even  Ruth,  who  had  been  disappointed  at 
first  that  it  was  he  and  not  George  who  was  to  be  her 
brother.  Graham  always  noticed  her  clothes  and  re- 
membered what  he  had  seen  her  in  last.  He  thought  she 
had  pretty  hair,  too,  and  he  often  pleased  her  by  re- 
marks about  the  dangerous,  the  insidious  twinkle  in  her 
eye.  He  made  her  feel  that  when  she  grew  up  and  "came 
out,"  she  might  be  quite  fascinating,  perhaps;  she  hardly 
dared  to  hope  it,  but  it  was  a  comfort  to  be  so  approved 
of,  especially  when  Ralph  was  in  the  habit  of  making 
such  "jarring"  remarks  about  one. 

Mr.  Ramsay  sat  in  a  deep  armchair  before  the  fire 
and  discussed  with  his  son-in-law  the  question  of 
strengthening  the  navy.  Graham,  sitting  on  a  bench  in 
an  angle  of  the  chimney  breast,  smoked  a  cigar  and 
placidly  upheld  the  safe  and  sane  policy  of  building  four 
new  battleships  a  year.  Mr.  Ramsay,  who  did  not 
smoke,  irritably  condemned  such  a  wasteful  and  brutal- 
izing programme.  Ralph  annoyed  his  father  by  express- 
ing approval  of  Graham's  views.  Rosamond  and  Ruth, 
knitting  neckties  side  by  side  on  the  sofa,  did  not  ven- 
ture into  the  argument. 

Mr.  Ramsay  was  an  idealistic  and  philosophical  stock- 
broker; that,  at  least,  was  his  own  conception  of  himself. 
A  slim,  spare  man  of  much  nervous  activity,  he  was  a 
creature  of  whims,  prejudices,  and  superstitions.  His 
hobby  was  the  promotion  of  peace,  the  abolition  of  wars; 
he  engaged  with  gusto  in  petty  broils  and  violent  alter- 
cations, and  then  in  a  sudden  tide  of  good  feeling  rushed 
to  make  magnanimous  concessions.  He  had  prospered 
[  190  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

in  business,  for  he  was  a  shrewd  adviser  to  his  customers, 
but  he  frequently  said  that  if  he  were  to  show  any  one 
a  list  of  ninety  per  cent  of  the  investments  —  or  specu- 
lations —  that  he  had  made,  the  astonished  person  would 
exclaim,  "What  poor  fool  did  this?"  He  was  likely  to 
have  a  prepossession  in  favor  of  any  reputed  gold  mine 
that  had  an  engaging  name;  he  had  paid  tribute  to  the 
seductive  sound  of  the  Golden  Hind,  the  Gopher  of 
Ophir,  the  Bright  Behemoth,  and  the  Bold  Buccaneer. 
More  than  half  sincere  had  he  always  been  in  believing 
that  for  him  and  his  family  a  special  virtue  resided  in 
the  letter  "R;"  and  it  had  been  a  satisfaction  to  him 
that  his  daughter  in  marrying  had  acquired  one  more 
name  possessing  that  magic  initial. 

"Well,"  said  Rosamond  finally,  when  what  had  been 
a  discussion  was  taking  on  the  character  of  a  paternal 
harangue,  "there  isn't  going  to  be  any  more  war, 
father,  and  if  there  were  neither  you  nor  Graham  would 
go." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  would  n't,"  replied  Mr. Ramsay 
with  some  asperity.  "I  disapprove  of  war,  but  I  might 
consider  it  my  duty  to  go.  I  should  have  gone  to  the 
Civil  War  if  I  'd  been  old  enough.  Of  course,  our  recent 
acts  of  aggression  in  Cuba  and  the  Philippines  — " 

Rosamond  hung  over  him  from  behind  his  chair  and 
laid  her  hand  across  his  mouth. 

"Well,  we'll  let  you  dash  off  to  the  next  war,  dad,  if 
you  insist  upon  it,"  she  said.  "But  Graham's  always 
going  to  stay  at  home  and  take  care  of  me  —  are  n't 
you,  Graham?" 

Graham  smiled  and  blew  out  a  slow  succession  of 
[    191    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

smoke  wreaths.  But  Ralph  answered  for  him,  quite  in- 
dignantly. 

"Not  much  he  would  n't!  You  women  seem  to  think 
that  all  a  man  has  to  do  is  to  sit  at  home  and  take  care 
of  you,  no  matter  what  happens.  Why,  if  there  was  a 
war  and  I  was  Graham,  I  'd  go  to  it  —  even  if  I  was  mar- 
ried to  —  to — " 

"Juliet  Morris,"  murmured  Ruth;  and  Ralph,  who 
was  unaware  that  his  sister  had  observed  his  budding 
passion,  flushed  and  subsided. 

"Graham,"  said  Mr.  Ramsay,  "I'll  have  a  little  of 
the  Scotch." 

Presently  they  were  talking  politics,  and  as  Graham 
and  Mr.  Ramsay  held  opposing  views  on  the  tariff  and 
the  trusts,  Rosamond  and  Ruth  soon  withdrew.  Ralph 
remained  to  assist  Graham  in  setting  his  father  right 
and  succeeded  only  in  heightening  Mr.  Ramsay's  scorn- 
ful eloquence. 

"They're  just  children,  Ruth,"  Rosamond  said  to 
her  sister,  as  she  bade  her  good-night  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs.  "You  realize  it  about  men  after  you  've  married 
them.  And  when  you  realize  that,  you  love  to  take  care 
of  them." 

Yes,  but  they  were  not  little  children,  she  said  to  her- 
self when  she  had  closed  the  door  of  her  room.  And  she 
stood  for  a  time  without  undressing,  thinking  of  what  it 
would  be  to  have  a  baby  of  her  own  in  her  arms  —  at 
her  breast.  "Nothing  so  good  can  ever  happen  to  me!" 
she  sighed  to  herself;  it  was  her  daily  sigh,  her  daily 
hope.  She  envied  the  young  mothers  of  the  country-side, 
she  envied  all  mothers  everywhere;  often  jealousy  made 
[  192  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

her  morbid,  and  her  lips  would  quiver,  her  eyes  would 
fill  at  sight  of  a  small  baby;  she  would  sit  silent,  droop- 
ing, when  young  mothers  talked.  Each  day  she  was 
afraid  of  hearing  that  Dorothy  was  more  fortunate  than 
she.  And  somehow  that  seemed  to  her  the  one  thing  that 
she  could  not  bear  —  to  feel  that  she  could  not  do  for 
Graham  what  Dorothy  could  do  for  George. 

Then  one  day  she  received  a  note  from  Dorothy  tell- 
ing her. 

Rosamond  flung  herself  upon  a  sofa  and  sobbed.  After 
a  time  she  went  to  her  desk  and  there  wrote  a  gay, 
light-hearted,  enthusiastic  letter  to  Dorothy,  pausing 
at  intervals  to  wipe  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  She  said 
that  she  would  begin  at  once  upon  some  little  garments 
—  and  she  wondered  if  she  could  ever  finish  them,  with 
such  an  aching  heart.  It  was  so  long  now  that  she  had 
been  a  married  woman;  her  case  was  no  doubt  hopeless. 
And  she  had  even  as  a  girl  looked  forward  to  motherhood 
and  imagined  that  sometime  she  should  have  children  — 
lots  of  curly -haired,  brown-eyed,  sunny -faced  little  chil- 
dren; she  had  imagined  herself  seated  on  the  floor  playing 
with  them,  while  they  tumbled  against  her  softly;  she 
had  imagined  herself  walking  in  a  garden  with  them 
clinging  to  her  hands,  hearing  their  voices  and  their 
laughter.  What  a  destiny  for  one  —  childlessness ! 
The  sofa  again  received  her  while  she  wept. 


CHAPTER  XXI 


FURNISHING  even  a  small  house  in  Marlborough 
Street  is  an  expensive  process,  and  neither  Dorothy 
nor  George  had  any  bargain-hunting  instincts.  They 
had  always  been  accustomed  to  go  to  high-priced  shops, 
and  to  pick  out  usually  some  of  the  highest-priced  articles, 
and  George  felt  that  it  was  in  the  nature  of  extraordi- 
nary expenses  to  be  extraordinary. 

He  had  learned  that  Dorothy  had  no  income  of  her 
own.  Mr.  Vasmer  had  left  all  his  property  to  his  wife. 
Mrs.  Vasmer  had  arranged  to  make  her  daughter  an 
allowance  of  two  hundred  dollars  a  month,  and  George 
had  compelled  a  promise  from  Dorothy  to  spend  her 
allowance  exclusively  upon  herself.  He  was  sure  that  his 
income  was  sufficient  to  support  the  household  com- 
fortably. Buying  furniture,  rugs,  pictures  out  of  capital 
seemed  under  the  circumstances  a  perfectly  justifiable 
thing  to  do.  And  the  reduction  of  income  occasioned  by 
such  purchases  was  trifling  —  only  a  few  hundred  dol- 
lars. Mrs.  Vasmer  was  so  generous  in  supplying  various 
domestic  needs  that  George  felt  he  and  Dorothy  were 
getting  settled  with  extreme  economy. 

"I  can't  possibly  spend  two  hundred  dollars  a  month, 
George,"  Dorothy  had  exclaimed.  "Certainly  not  when 
I'm  in  mourning." 

And  then  she  had  proceeded,  quite  to  her  own  amaze- 
[  194  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

ment,  to  demonstrate  how  easily  the  thing  could  be 
done. 

She  could  not  understand  it,  for  she  certainly  was  not 
extravagant.  To  be  sure,  when  she  had  lived  with  her 
parents,  she  had  frequently  received  from  them  presents 
of  clothes.  But  black  was  so  inexpensive !  She  sighed, 
bewildered,  over  the  bills.  Florists  charged  awfully, 
and  as  for  cabs  —  she  determined  the  next  month  to 
keep  a  record  of  the  times  she  took  a  cab;  she  was  sure 
the  livery  stable  cheated.  Charities  —  they  had  made 
a  considerable  hole  in  the  allowance,  but  she  could  not 
cut  down  on  the  charities.  She  had  always  been  open- 
handed,  and  the  Infants'  Hospital  and  the  Animal  Res- 
cue League  and  various  other  worthy  causes  had  enlisted 
her  active  interest  and  support.  Anyway,  she  had  to  ask 
George  if  he  could  advance  some  money  to  help  her  pay 
her  bills  for  the  first  month. 

"I'm  frightfully  ashamed  of  myself,"  she  said.  "But 
I  thought  you  'd  rather  have  me  owe  it  to  you  than  to  the 
tradespeople.  I  'm  sure  it  won't  happen  again,  and  the 
first  of  next  month  I  will  settle  up  with  you." 

George  still  had  a  considerable  bank  balance  from  the 
sale  of  some  shares  to  meet  his  initial  extraordinary  ex- 
penses. The  idea  that  husband  and  wife  should  put 
themselves  into  a  relation  of  creditor  and  debtor  was 
revolting  to  him,  and  he  said  so. 

"Why,  what  was  that  promise  that  I  made  when  we 
were  married?"  he  asked.  "What's  mine  is  yours. 
Don't  feel  badly  about  it,  Dorothy;  getting  started  in- 
volves extraordinary  expenses,  of  course." 

She  tried  hard  and  ran  behind  only  ten  or  fifteen  dol- 
1  195  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

lars  the  next  month.  Meanwhile,  George,  who  had  un- 
dertaken to  deal  with  all  the  household  bills,  was  quite 
appalled.  To  meet  them  his  income  for  the  month  was 
insufficient;  he  had  to  draw  against  the  remnant  of 
capital  still  left  to  his  bank  account.  Obviously  they 
were  living  too  extravagantly;  with  great  reluctance  he 
asked  Dorothy  what  they  could  do  about  it.  She  did  n't 
know ;  ways  of  economizing  were  new  to  her.  She  thought 
that  perhaps  they  could  get  along  without  a  laundress; 
it  would  not  be  so  satisfactory,  of  course,  to  send  the 
washing  out,  and  it  would  be  much  harder  on  the 
clothes.  But  after  all,  why  worry?  That  very  day  her 
mother  had  made  them  a  present  of  a  hundred  dollars, 
in  addition  to  the  monthly  allowance,  and  had  intimated 
that  she  meant  to  do  that  sort  of  thing  often. 

"That's  very  kind  of  her,"  George  answered,  "but  I 
say  that  we  make  it  our  rule  always  to  put  every  gift 
of  that  kind  into  a  savings  bank.  We  ought  to  be  accu- 
mulating a  reserve  fund." 

"But  mother's  so  rich!  She  would  love  to  help  us." 

"Of  course;  and  she  does.  But  we  should  n't  rely  on 
her  help  to  meet  current  expenses.  We  ought  to  set 
aside  whatever  she  gives  as  a  sort  of  trust  for  future 
members  of  the  family." 

Dorothy  laughed;  the  idea  of  future  members  was  still 
as  novel  as  it  was  pleasant  to  her  imagination.  "What 
can  I  do,  then,  George?"  she  asked.  "I'm  willing  to  be 
economical,  only  I  don't  know  where  to  begin." 

So  George  went  over  the  bills  carefully  with  her.  He 
suggested  that  perhaps  they  could  get  along  with  fewer 
guinea  chickens,  ducks,  and  other  delicacies.  He  thought 
[  196  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

that  possibly  they  had  been  having  people  to  dine  with 
them  a  little  oftener  than  was  advisable.  He  suspected 
that  the  cook  and  the  laundress  and  the  waitress  had 
been  getting  fat  on  cream.  "I  don't  know;  I'm  green 
as  I  can  be  at  this  sort  of  thing,"  he  said.  "But  we 
shall  have  to  work  it  out.  Of  course  we  can't  spend 
more  than  we've  got." 

"Of  course  not,"  Dorothy  agreed  dolefully.  "But 
oh,  George,  is  n't  it  a  pity  I'm  so  extravagant!" 

She  set  herself  to  conquer  her  vice.  She  discharged 
the  laundress,  cut  down  the  marketing,  and  became  nig- 
gardly of  invitations  to  her  friends.  Then  one  day  she 
read  in  the  newspaper  that  the  cotton  mill  from  which 
George  derived  a  portion  of  his  income  had  passed  its 
usual  dividend.  A  strike  that  had  been  going  on  for 
three  months  had  foreshadowed  this  action;  neverthe- 
less, Dorothy  saw  that  it  had  disturbed  her  husband 
and  waited  for  him  to  speak.  He  did  not,  and  so  after 
two  or  three  days  she  asked  him  if  it  would  be  a  serious 
matter  for  them. 

"Not  so  serious  as  if  I  were  n't  beginning  to  get  some 
returns  from  my  practice,"  he  answered.  "  It  looks  as  if 
now  I  should  be  able  to  count  on  a  little  extra,  besides 
what  I  get  from  Dr.  Armazet." 

Dorothy's  zeal  for  economy  was  stimulated,  even 
inflamed.  A  fine,  unselfish  idea  burned  within  her. 
She  would  say  nothing  to  George  now,  but  at  the  end 
of  the  month  he  would  learn  what  a  practical,  unselfish 
wife  she  could  be.  She  began  to  deny  herself  the  luxuries 
to  which  the  allowance  from  her  mother  entitled  her.  She 
had  fresh  flowers  in  the  house  now  not  oftener  than  once 
[  197  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

a  week.  She]took  no  cabs,  she  gave  up  her  favorite  amuse- 
ment of  going  to  the  theater,  reluctantly  she  dropped 
appeals  for  money  into  the  waste  basket;  most  self- 
denying  of  all,  when  "Christmas  was  at  hand,  was  her 
determination,  rigidly  carried  out,  to  buy  no  gifts  for 
any  one  costing  more  than  a  dollar.  It  seemed  absurd 
to  be  so  scrupulous  when  one  day  her  mother  put  a  check 
'for  two  hundred  dollars  into  her  hand  and  told  her 
that  it  was  for  "little  extras."  But  when  she  found 
that  George  felt  they  should  be  firm  with  themselves 
and  bury  the  sum  in  the  savings  bank,  she  agreed 
meekly. 

So  she  continued  to  practice  her  unaccustomed  self- 
denial.  When  the  bills  for  the  month  came  in,  she  was 
able  to  present  herself  before  her  husband  and  say, 
"George,  dear,  there's  more  than  a  hundred  dollars  of 
my  allowance  that  I  have  n't  spent  —  so  you  must  n't 
let  the  bills  worry  you.  And  I  can  do  as  well  as  that  every 
month  —  really,  nearly  every  month,"  she  added,  a  little 
reluctantly. 

"Dorothy,  you're  a  brick!"  George  kissed  her,  and 
kissed  her  again  with  an  agreeable  warmth  of  enthu- 
siasm; he  kissed  her  often  enough  in  love;  she  liked  to  be 
kissed,  as  now,  in  praise.  His  doing  it  made  her  know 
how  great  was  her  craving  for  just  that  kind  of  apprecia- 
tion. "But  we're  all  right  without  it,  dear;  I'm  getting 
prosperous;  I  shan't  have  to  touch  a  cent  of  your  money. 
So  you  must  spend  it  all,  right  away.  It  was  n't  much 
fun  economizing,  was  it?" 

"No,  not  really.    Though  I  did  like  the  thought  of 
perhaps  being  a  help  to  you,  George." 
[    198    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"You're  always  that.  Much  more  of  a  help  to  me 
than  I  am  to  you,  I'm  afraid." 

"No.  I 'm  glad  you 're  a  doctor.  You  will  help  me, 
won't  you?" 

The  look  in  her  eyes  reached  his  heart.  He  held  her 
tenderly  and  said,  "  Poor  little  girl !  You  're  not  afraid?  " 

"Oh,  not  for  myself,  George.  But  sometimes  for  the 
little  one.  I  could  n't  bear  it  if  things  went  wrong  — 
and  I'm  glad  you're  a  doctor  and  can  help  me.  I  wish 
we  were  together  more." 

"I  wish  so,  too." 

"Shall  you  always  be  as  busy  as  you  are  now?" 

"So  long  as  I  am  with  Dr.  Armazet.  And  afterwards, 
when  I  set  up  for  myself ,  let 's  hope  I  shall  be  as  busy." 

"Yes,  and  of  course  when  people  need  you,  I  ought 
not  to  want  to  keep  you  from  them.  But  I  do  miss  you, 
the  evenings  and  the  nights  when  you  have  to  be  away. 
I  think  it  would  n't  be  so  bad  if  I  could  really  feel  at 
these  times  that  you  are  making  me  a  little  the  com- 
panion of  your  thoughts." 

"But  I  do!"  cried  George  earnestly,  before  he  had 
time  to  think  whether  he  did  or  not. 

"Do  you  truly?  Sometimes  when  you've  been  away 
I  've  thought  of  you  so  hard  —  it  seemed  as  if  you  must 
know.  And  I  've  hoped  that  you  would  speak  of  it  and 
show  me  that  you  felt  I  was  with  you  at  the  time  — 
but  I  've  always  been  disappointed.  And  sometimes  I  've 
wondered  if  you  really  cared;  I  thought  that  if  you  did 
you  would  have  known  and  answered." 

"I  fear  I  haven't  much  faith  in  telepathy.  But, 
Dorothy,  I  think  of  you  when  you  don't  know;  I  think 
[  199  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

of  what  is  going  to  happen  —  your  happiness  and 
mine." 

"Do  you?  And  you're  quite  sure  that  you  will  still 
like  me  when  I'm  not  nice-looking  any  more?" 

He  laughed  and  patted  her  caressingly.  "I'm  quite 
sure.  As  if  you  could  ever  be  anything  but  nice-looking ! 
Nice-looking!  What  a  word  for  it!  —  Shall  we  go  to  the 
theater  to-night?  " 

"Oh,  yes!  It's  so  long  since  you've  taken  me  any- 
where. What  shall  we  see?" 

They  settled  upon  the  play.  George  telephoned  to  the 
agent  to  have  tickets  for  him  at  the  box  office,  and  then 
started  off  on  his  afternoon  rounds.  At  six  o'clock  he 
telephoned  to  Dorothy  that  he  would  have  to  pass  the 
evening  with  a  patient.  Should  he  countermand  the 
order  for  tickets,  or  would  she  get  some  one  else  to  go 
with  her?" 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  cried.  "How  disappointing !  Can't 
you  possibly  go,  George?  " 

"No;  I'm  disappointed,  too." 

"And  it  was  to  be  your  only  free  night  this  week! 
I  'd  ordered  a  specially  nice  dinner.  It  makes  me  so  cross ! 
Well,  I  had  my  mind  all  made  up  for  a  spree,  and  I'm 
going  to  find  somebody  and  have  it.  Do  you  mind, 
George?" 

"Of  course  not.  I  want  you  to  have  a  good  time. 
Then  the  tickets  will  be  at  the  box  office." 

Dorothy  meditated.  She  could  probably  persuade  some 

girl  friend  to  accompany  her,  but  she  saw  enough  of 

girls  during  the  day.    She  felt  that  it  would  be  much 

more  pleasant  and  amusing  to  go  with  a  man.    There 

J    200    J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

had  been  four  men  who  had  actively  wanted  to  many 
her,  and  she  had  seen  virtually  nothing  of  any  of  them 
since  her  return  from  Europe.  They  had  all  written  her 
deeply  sympathetic  notes  after  her  father's  death;  they 
had  all  sent  her  very  chilly  congratulations  upon  her 
engagement.  Of  course,  it  had  been  a  shock  to  them,  but 
she  thought  they  might  have  been  a  little  more  pleasant 
about  it  —  especially  since  they  knew  how  much  she 
really  liked  them  all.  Now  here  was  an  opportunity  to 
bring  about  a  better  state  of  mind  in  one  of  them.  Which 
one  should  it  be? 

She  fixed  on  Hugh  Shepard.  He  was  the  gayest  and 
most  amusing  of  the  four — and  she  thought  he  had 
cared  about  her  a  little  more  than  any  of  the  others. 

She  telephoned  to  him  in  the  same  spirit  as  on  former 
occasions  when  she  had  thrilled  his  soul  with  invitations. 

"Hello,  Hugh,"  she  said.  "This  is  Dorothy  —  Dor- 
othy Brandon.  George  is  on  a  case  this  evening,  and  I 
have  theater  tickets.  Won't  you  dine  and  go  with  me?  " 

"Why,  yes,  I'll  be  delighted.  Yes,  thank  you  very 
much." 

There  was  a  little  hesitation  in  the  acceptance,  but 
Dorothy  was  not  troubled  by  that.  He  probably  felt  a 
bit  awkward;  as  soon  as  she  saw  him  she  could  make 
him  realize  how  pleasant  it  would  be  just  to  be  good 
friends. 

To  her  chagrin  the  experiment  was  not  successful.  She 
failed  to  overcome  Hugh  Shepard's  air  of  constraint. 
With  her  sixth  sense  she  felt  that  at  the  theater  he  was 
uncomfortable  —  that  his  public  appearance  as  her  escort 
made  him  so.  The  play  was  disappointing,  the  evening 
[  201  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

was  dull.  Worst  of  all  was  the  vague  feeling  that  she  had 
somehow  diminished  herself  in  the  eyes  of  one  who  had 
been  a  worshiper;  he  thought  she  had  exacted  of  him 
homage  which  it  was  no  longer  a  joy  to  render. 

She  bade  Shepard  good-night  on  her  doorstep.  When 
she  entered  the  house,  George  came  out  of  his  study  to 
welcome  her. 

"Did  you  have  a  good  time?"  he  asked. 

"Not  especially.  Oh,  George,  I  don't  believe  I  can 
ever  have  a  good  time  any  more  unless  you  are  with 
me!"  She  spoke  dolefully. 

"You  can't  expect  me  to  be  sorry  for  that!" 

"Yes,  because  life  is  so  dull!  You  so  seldom  can  take 
me  anywhere.  I  think  I  shall  just  have  to  settle  down 
and  find  pleasure  in  nothing  but  my  children ! " 

He  laughed,  and  then  on  a  sudden  impulse  he  pressed 
her  hand  and  said, 

"Women  are  brave,  and  you're  the  bravest  of  them 
all." 

Her  eyes  shone  to  that.  Of  course  it  was  n't  true,  but 
to  have  George  think  it  and  say  it  touched  her  heart. 
What  did  it  matter  about  Hugh  Shepard?  Her  husband's 
arm  was  round  her  waist  as  she  mounted  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  PROTEGE 

WHEN  the  advantage  of  living  in  a  house  just 
round  the  corner  from  her  mother  had  pre- 
sented itself  to  Dorothy,  she  had  not  considered  the  pos- 
sible disadvantage  of  occupying  a  position  almost  di- 
rectly across  the  street  from  her  sister-in-law,  Hetty 
Mallory.  Yet  this  was  the  situation  of  the  house  that 
George  had  bought,  and  that  it  involved  inconveniences 
amounting  sometimes  to  irritations  Dorothy  had  not 
been  long  in  discovering.  During  the  period  of  getting 
settled,  Hetty  had  been  executive,  bustling,  practically 
helpful  and  temperamentally  exasperating.  She  charged 
herself  with  all  sorts  of  duties  and  responsibilities;  re- 
lieving the  bride  of  burdens,  she  occasionally  usurped 
her  authority.  Dorothy  was  not  bustling  and  vigorously 
aggressive,  but  she  was  not  incompetent;  she  was  easy- 
going, but  she  was  by  no  means  meek;  and  resentment 
over  Hetty's  invasions  of  her  newly  created  empire 
smouldered  within  her.  That  she  repressed  it  and  did 
not  let  it  flame  out  on  several  provoking  occasions  was 
due  not  to  timidity,  but  to  an  unwillingness  to  precipi- 
tate a  situation  that  might  be  distressing  to  George. 
He  admired  his  sister,  was  fond  of  her,  and  deferred  in 
many  things  to  her  judgment;  in  those  early  days  it  had 
wounded  Dorothy  acutely  once  or  twice  that  without 
[  203  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

any  reference  to  her  he  had  recognized  the  value  of 
Hetty's  suggestions  and  had  seemed  untroubled  by 
Hetty's  officiousness. 

After  Dorothy  was  well  established  in  her  new  house, 
Hetty  formed  a  habit  of  "dropping  in."  Her  visits  were 
usually  brief;  she  seldom  sat  down;  and  although  there 
was  something  about  her  that  to  her  sister-in-law  was 
unsympathetic  and  irritating,  Dorothy  would  often  have 
liked  her  better  if  she  had  been  less  flitting  and  frag- 
mentary. "She  does  n't  give  me  a  chance  to  be  really 
friendly  with  her,"  Dorothy  thought.  "She  just  gives 
herself  a  chance  to  see  what  kind  of  a  state  the  house  is 
in."  If  a  pah*  of  andirons  needed  polishing,  Hetty  would 
be  likely  to  say,  "Isn't  it  odd  how  few  parlor-maids 
will  ever  polish  brasses  properly?  I  have  one  who  simply 
adores  making  them  shine,  but  I  realize  what  an  ex- 
ception she  is."  She  would  inspect  the  cyclamens  in  the 
window  to  see  if  they  were  getting  enough  water,  and  if 
they  were  not,  she  would  promptly  comment  upon  their 
needs.  She  would  recommend  some  breakfast  foods  and 
denounce  others  in  a  perfectly  authoritative  manner. 
Passing  the  door  of  George's  consulting-room  and  glanc- 
ing in  at  his  untidy  desk,  she  would  remark,  "Dear 
me,  I  did  hope  that  when  George  was  married,  he 
would  show  some  improvement  in  neatness,"  and 
Dorothy  felt  that  it  was  a  veiled  indictment  of  her  fail- 
ure to  achieve  neatness  for  him. 

One  morning,  contrary  to  her  usual  custom  after 

dropping  in,  Hetty  took  a  chair.  "Now  what?  "  thought 

Dorothy,  and  prepared  herself  for  one  of  the  confidential 

and  somewhat  alarmist  discourses  which  Hetty,  as  an 

[    204    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

experienced  mother,  was  in  the  habit  of  volunteering. 
It  appeared,  however,  as  if  she  were  merely  animated 
by  a  desire  to  talk  about  the  Morrises'  ball  to  which  she 
was  going  the  next  night.  She  really  hated  balls  —  at 
her  age  —  but  Phil  loved  to  go,  and  of  course  one  must 
humor  one's  husband.  She  had  a  new  dress  to  wear 
and  described  it;  and  all  the  while  her  bright  brown 
eyes  were  roving  with  restless  interest  about  the  room, 
until  suddenly  Dorothy  saw  them  directed  in  a  narrow, 
squinting  expression  at  the  top  of  the  piano. 

"No,  there's  none  there,"  Dorothy  remarked  coldly. 
"I  dusted  it  off  myself  this  morning." 

Hetty  was  unabashed.  "A  great  mistake,  to  do  a 
maid's  work  for  her.  Whenever  I  find  that  a  maid  has 
neglected  a  task,  no  matter  how  trifling,  I  always  sum- 
mon her;  otherwise  you  spoil  them." 

"Oh,  I  dare  say.  But  sometimes,  when  you're  con- 
scious of  so  many  shortcomings  in  yourself,  you  feel 
ashamed  to  be  always  exacting  perfection  from  others. 
At  least  I  do." 

"Well,  I  don't,"  declared  Hetty.  "They've  got  to 
be  kept  up  to  the  mark,  and  the  only  way  to  do  it  is  by 
keeping  after  them.  You  need  n't  be  afraid  of  perfection. 
You  won't  get  it,  however  exacting  you  are.  Oftentimes 
to  do  a  thing  yourself  instead  of  calling  a  servant  to  do 
it  is  sheer  laziness  —  bad  for  yourself  as  well  as  for  the 
servant." 

"Perfectly  true,"  admitted  Dorothy.  "But  I  can't 
be  exercising  my  character  all  day  long.  I  have  to  rest 
it  now  and  then." 

Hetty  switched  with  characteristic  abruptness  to 
[  205  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

another  topic.  "What  did  you  think  of  the  play  last 
night?" 

"Trash.   But  I  did  n't  see  you  there." 

"I  tried  to  get  your  eye.  Phil  and  I  were  on  the  other 
side  of  the  house  —  down  in  front.  I  could  n't  quite  see 
whom  you  were  with." 

Dorothy  smiled.  Hetty's  vigorous  and  shameless 
curiosity  was  one  of  her  traits  that  was  more  amusing 
than  annoying. 

"You  wouldn't  have  known  him  if  you  had  seen 
him.  But  you  were  right  in  thinking  that  it  wasn't 
George." 

"Then  it  wasn't  Hugh  Shepard?"  Hetty  had  evi- 
dently derived  from  some  source  or  other  knowledge  of 
Dorothy's  excursion  with  the  luckless  Hugh,  though 
she  had  not  hitherto  commented  on  it.  "  Phil  said  he 
could  see  enough  to  be  sure  that  it  was  n't;  I  told 
him  he  must  be  mistaken.  Well,  now,  who  was  it, 
Dorothy?" 

"His  name  is  Hanford  —  Sidney  Hanford.  He  was 
on  the  ship  going  over  last  summer,  working  his  way  as  a 
cattle  man.  George  and  he  became  quite  intimate,  and 
it  was  on  the  boat  that  I  met  him  —  at  the  same  time 
that  I  first  met  George.  He 's  a  Dartmouth  College  man ; 
he  comes  from  somewhere  up  in  New  Hampshire.  I  had 
never  seen  him  since  our  first  meeting  until  the  other 
day  when  George  brought  him  home  to  dinner.  He  is 
working  on  a  newspaper  here  in  Boston,  and  his  ambition 
is  to  write  novels.  He  is  very  young  —  only  twenty -one. 
He  is  living  in  a  hall  bedroom  somewhere  and  had  caught 
a  frightful  cold;  he  had  looked  George  up,  and  that  is 
[  206  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

how  George  happened  to  get  hold  of  him.  Now  you 
know  all  that  I  do  about  him,  Hetty." 

"Except  how  he  happened  to  be  at  the  theater  with 
you  last  night." 

"Oh,  I  invited  him.  I  hoped  that  George  could  go, 
too,  but  as  usual  he  had  to  give  out  at  the  last  moment. 
Of  course  it 's  very  much  to  the  boy's  advantage  to  have 
some  recreation,  and  I  imagine  that  he  can't  afford  to 
go  to  the  theater  often.  So  I  mean  to  take  him  from 
time  to  time." 

"My  dear!  You  don't  want  to  get  yourself  talked 
about!" 

"How  absurd!  He  's  a  mere  child!"  An  angry  flush 
stormed  over  Dorothy's  face. 

Hetty  stood  her  ground.  "Of  course  a  woman  who  is 
seen  repeatedly  with  men  other  than  her  husband  is 
talked  about.  And  if  you  will  forgive  the  plain  speaking, 
Dorothy,  hi  your  condition  — "  Hetty,  instead  of  pro- 
ceeding to  plain  speaking,  paused  on  a  silence  elo- 
quently definite. 

"  If  you  will  forgive  the  plain  speaking,  Hetty,  I  have 
a  mother  who  is  perfectly  competent  to  furnish  me  with 
advice." 

Hetty,  now  as  red  as  Dorothy,  rose  at  once.  "Very 
well;  I  shall  say  no  more,  of  course." 

She  left  the  room  with  dignity.  Dorothy  held  herself 
tense  until  the  -sound  of  the  outer  door  being  closed 
reached  her  ears;  then,  picking  up  a  book  she  hurled  it 
savagely  into  a  nest  of  sofa  pillows  and  sent  after  it 
another  and  another.  And  then  she  dropped  on  the  sofa 
herself,  put  her  head  on  her  arms  and  sobbed.  She  felt 
[  207  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

outraged,  insulted;  what  right  had  anyone  to  say  such 
things  to  her? 

She  wanted  to  pour  her  grievance  into  her  husband's 
ear;  if  he  had  been  at  home  she  would  have  rushed  to 
him.  But  soon  she  got  control  of  her  temper  and  her 
senses,  and  then  the  memory  of  his  former  easy  acqui- 
escence in  Hetty's  domineering  measures  quite  checked 
her  desire  to  seek  his  sympathy. 

Yet  George  was  not  unsympathetic  in  these  days. 
When  he  was  at  home  with  her,  he  displayed  always 
gentleness  and  tenderness.  He  watched  over  her  care- 
fully to  see  that  she  did  not  do  too  much;  he  was  pa- 
tient with  her  impatience;  he  tried  to  keep  from  her  all 
his  own  worries  —  worries  about  cases,  worries  about 
money.  From  these  he  was  never  free  in  spite  of  his 
cheerful  and  confident  tone.  By  practicing  severe  econ- 
omy in  all  personal  expenditures  he  was  able  to  maintain 
the  household  without  appealing  to  Dorothy  or  accept- 
ing her  frequently  proffered  assistance;  so  she  went 
cheerfully  on,  giving  to  charities,  buying  things  that 
pleased  her,  trying,  as  she  would  have  termed  it,  to  do 
nice  little  things  for  people. 

And  among  these  pleasures  which  she  allowed  her- 
self was  the  further  patronage  of  Sidney  Hanford. 
George  encouraged  it;  he  liked  Hanford  and  he  felt  that 
Dorothy  was  the  better  at  this  time  for  having  such  a 
live  interest  as  that  of  developing  a  protege.  Hanford 
dined  with  them  frequently,  went  to  the  theater  with 
them;  on  several  nights  when  George  was  busy,  he  ac- 
companied Dorothy  alone.  Whether  the  fact  of  those 
further  excursions  came  to  Hetty's  ear  or  not,  Dorothy 
[  208  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

never  knew;  on  each  occasion  she  saw  friends  in  the 
audience  who  might  very  easily  have  communicated 
news  about  her  movements.  Hetty,  at  any  rate,  had 
given  up  the  habit  of  dropping  hi  and  no  longer  sub- 
jected her  either  to  pathological  dissertations  or  cor- 
rective suggestions;  that  was  a  thing  to  be  thankful 
for. 

The  quality  of  Hanford's  admiration  pleased  Dorothy; 
it  was  different  from  her  husband's  —  more  unworldly, 
more  closely  and  keenly  observant  and  at  the  same  time 
rather  shy  and  deprecating.  George  was  always  con- 
siderate and  solicitous,  a  good  practical  sort  of  husband 
on  whose  protective  nature  she  could  rely.  Where  he 
fell  short  was  in  not  recognizing  her  dependence  on 
ideas  —  on  hearing  and  sharing  ideas;  or  perhaps  he 
vaguely  recognized  the  need  and  yet  was  too  driven 
with  work  and  too  tired  in  the  intervals  to  do  much 
towards  satisfying  it. 

He  came  home  one  night  at  about  one  o'clock 
to  find  lights  in  the  drawing-room.  When  he  en- 
tered, Hanford  was  gathering  up  a  pile  of  manuscript 
from  a  table.  Dorothy  was  reclining  on  the  sofa.  Han- 
ford  turned  his  ingenuous,  deprecating  smile  upon 
George. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  very  late;  I'm  afraid  I've  been  keep- 
ing Mrs.  Brandon  up  in  a  shameful  way,"  he  said. 
"She  was  good  enough  to  let  me  read  her  a  story  that 
I've  written." 

"Sorry  I  was  n't  at  home  to  hear  it,  too." 

"It's  not  a  success;  Mrs.  Brandon  will  tell  you  that." 
Hanford's  tone  was  rueful. 

[    209    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"I've  been  horrid  and  said  just  what  I  thought,  and 
he's  taken  it  like  a  lamb,"  explained  Dorothy. 

"That's  something  for  you  to  remember,  my  dear, 
after  he  's  become  a  lion,"  said  George. 

Hanford  laughed  in  his  embarrassed  way  and  said 
he  guessed  he  was  more  like  a  sheep. 

After  he  had  gone  George  asked,  "Was  his  story  good 
at  all?" 

"Not  good  enough,"  Dorothy  answered.  "But  it 
has  flashes;  some  time  he  will  do  a  thing  that  is  worth 
while.  He 's  young  —  he  was  so  bashful  about  reading ! 
Over  the  passages  into  which  he  had  put  the  most  feeling 
he  blushed  like  a  boy." 

"What  was  his  heroine  like?  You?"  George  smiled 
at  her. 

"I  don't  believe  so.   Why?" 

"Because  it's  easy  to  see  you  are  his  heroine." 

"  What  nonsense ! " 

"Not  a  bit.  And  if  I  could  write,  I  should  be  put- 
ting you  into  stories." 

"Would  you,  dear?"  Dorothy  kissed  him. 

"Did  he  get  you  true  to  life  at  all?" 

"Silly!" 

Nevertheless  Dorothy  had  been  aware  that  young 
Hanford  had  tried  to  put  her  into  his  story  —  that  the 
strange  unreal  creature  of  maddening  charm  and  singu- 
lar nobility  represented  his  conception  of  herself.  She 
knew  it  by  his  excessive  and  apologetic  and  blushing  em- 
barrassment over  the  actions  and  speeches  of  the  char- 
acter, she  knew  it  by  a  subtle  instinct  of  her  own.  And 
preposterous  as  was  his  idealistic  conception,  it  pleased 
[  210  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

her,  and  she  even  lay  awake  a  little  while  dwelling  on 
the  agreeable  thought  that  some  time  Hanford  would  be 
famous  and  would  make  her  in  one  disguise  or  another 
always  his  heroine. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

SPRING  OF  THE  YEAR 

ON  a  warm  afternoon  towards  the  end  of  April 
Rosamond  was  moving  slowly  down  the  avenue 
at  Sunset  Acres,  lingering  beside  each  shrub  to  inspect 
the  stage  of  its  development.  Already  the  forsythias 
were  exchanging  their  golden  yellow  for  green,  the  first 
leaf  buds  on  the  bare  stems  of  the  hydrangeas  were  be- 
ginning to  unfold,  the  spiraeas  had  decked  themselves 
in  white,  the  prunus  triloba  was  embowered  in  blossoms 
of  rosy  pink;  passing  from  one  bush  to  another,  Rosa- 
mond touched  the  branches,  bent  over  them  and  scruti- 
nized the  buds  and  the  blossoms.  At  last  she  reached  the 
foot  of  the  slope  where  inside  the  wall  Graham  had  set 
out  some  young  trees  in  the  autumn  —  mountain  ash, 
horse-chestnuts,  and  maples;  each  one  she  visited  with 
the  same  pleased  and  wondering  interest  that  she  had 
bestowed  upon  the  shrubs.  The  plump  smooth  buds  of 
the  horse-chestnuts  swelled  on  the  tips  of  the  branches; 
some  of  them  had  already  burst  open;  it  was  as  if  the 
closed  little  fist  had  opened  out  into  the  spread  little 
hand,  but  green,  greener  even  than  the  young  grass; 
Rosamond  looked  at  those  young  horse-chestnut  leaves 
tenderly,  for  somehow  they  made  her  think  of  a  baby's 
tiny  hand.  On  the  mountain  ash  last  year's  berries 
hung  in  blackened  clusters  beside  this  spring's  furry 
gray  buds;  the  red  maples  and  the  Norway  maples 
[  212  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

seemed  to  be  mixing  up  the  colors  of  autumn  with  those 
of  spring,  so  tinted  was  their  gay  foliage  with  pink  and 
bronze  and  golden  hues.  They  changed  now  from  day 
to  day.  "They  won't  be  interesting  in  that  way  much 
longer,"  thought  Rosamond,  "at  least  not  a  daily  excite- 
ment"; and  she  wondered  if  it  was  so  with  all  living 
things. 

One  of  the  horse-chestnuts  was  not  thriving,  and  she 
went  close  to  examine  it;  all  over  the  trunk  were  dotted 
tiny  carmine  specks;  she  tried  to  rub  some  of  them  off, 
but  could  not.  "  Oh,  dear !  another  pest ! "  she  murmured. 
"  How  mean  of  it  to  attack  little  baby  trees ! "  She  would 
call  Graham's  attention  to  it,  and  perhaps  he  would  find 
a  way  of  saving  the  young  tree.  It  was  wonderful,  the 
knowledge  that  Graham  had  of  methods  of  dealing  with 
plants  and  trees,  and  he  knew  and  liked  the  birds,  too, 
and  all  small  and  helpless  things.  Thinking  of  that 
characteristic  of  her  husband  gave  Rosamond  in  this 
moment  a  special  happiness. 

Never  in  all  her  life  had  she  felt  as  now  the  holiness  as 
well  as  the  beauty  of  spring;  never  before  had  the  mys- 
tery and  the  miracle  of  it  touched  her  deepest  soul.  She 
felt  herself  as  much  a  partaker  in  the  mystery  and  the 
miracle  as  the  swelling  buds,  the  blossoming  pear  tree; 
she  was  glad  that  the  coming  of  her  first  child  should  have 
been  announced  to  her  in  the  spring.  Already  she  thought 
of  it  as  the  first  child;  the  alteration  in  her  outlook  was 
complete,  for  only  a  few  weeks  before  she  had  believed 
herself  condemned  to  a  life  of  childlessness.  Now  rosy 
little  figures  sported  in  her  dreams,  and  when  she  was 
awake  she  had  visions  of  a  series  of  little  babies;  one 
[  213  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

after  another  they  would  come  to  be  cuddled  and  played 
with  and  held  to  her  breast.  And  she  did  not  lose  sight 
of  them  as  they  grew  older;  she  imagined  herself  walk- 
ing hand  in  hand  with  them,  playing  with  them  hi  the 
garden,  seeing  their  chubby  faces  and  round  eyes  up- 
turned to  her,  hearing  the  funny  prattle  of  their  voices; 
endlessly  she  entertained  herself  with  these  imaginings. 
She  was  never  lonely  any  more,  and  there  had  been 
times  during  the  winter  when  she  had  been  very  lonely, 
had  even,  hi  the  feeling  that  she  had  been  set  apart  as 
a  barren  woman,  desired  nothing  but  loneliness.  Now 
all  was  changed;  she  liked  to  laugh  with  people  and  be 
gay;  from  pleasant  dreams  the  early  morning  songs  of 
birds  roused  her,  and  listening  in  a  contented  drowsi- 
ness she  drifted  again  into  pleasant  dreams;  stormy 
weather  did  not  depress  her  spirits;  the  rain  beating  upon 
the  windows,  the  gale  roaring  down  the  chimneys,  leaden 
skies  and  driving  clouds  no  longer  had  a  baleful  influ- 
ence on  her  mood,  but  seemed  to  emphasize  her  sense 
of  inner  security  and  peace.  To  a  few  persons  she  had 
already  told  her  secret;  her  own  family  knew  of  it,  and 
she  had  gone  in  to  Boston  one  morning  to  tell  Dorothy. 
If  there  had  been  anything  that  might  have  clouded  her 
radiance,  it  would  have  been  Dorothy's  way  of  receiving 
the  news;  Dorothy  had  expressed  pleasure  and  the  hope 
that  they  would  both  have  boys,  and  then  had  passed 
on  to  a  partly  jocular  description  of  the  tediousness 
and  discomfort  and  indignity  of  the  preliminary  time. 

"You'll  feel  differently  when  the  baby  comes,"  Rosa- 
mond said. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so;  I  hope  so.  I  don't  want  to  dis- 
[  214  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

courage  you;  never  mind,  I  suppose  we  would  go  through 
even  worse  for  what  we  are  to  get." 

Rosamond  felt  that  she  would  go  through  anything 
and  that  she  could  not  imagine  herself  grumbling,  but 
she  did  not  say  this.  She  had  been  struck  by  the  un- 
accustomed querulous  note  in  Dorothy's  voice,  and  had 
come  away  from  the  interview  with  an  uncomfortable 
feeling  that  Dorothy  was  disposed  to  reproach  George 
for  having  got  her  into  such  a  condition  and  for  not 
being  more  attentive  to  her  now  that  she  was  in  it. 

"I'm  afraid  she  married  him  too  suddenly," thought 
Rosamond,  forgetful  of  the  fact  that  she  herself  had 
married  Graham  almost  as  suddenly.  "But  of  course 
everything  will  be  better  after  the  baby  comes." 

And  meanwhile  how  could  one  be  aware  of  jars  and 
discords !  How  could  one  be  aware  of  anything  but  the 
swelling  joy  of  spring ! 

From  her  musings  and  from  her  leisurely  inspection 
of  shrubs  and  trees  she  was  roused  by  the  sound  of 
wheels  approaching  along  the  road.  Looking  over  the 
wall,  she  saw  Graham  seated  in  a  buckboard  beside 
William  Briggs,  the  village  storekeeper  and  postmaster. 
Briggs,  who  was  driving,  drew  up  to  let  Graham  alight 
and  called  out  to  Rosamond,  "I  hope  you  won't  put  a 
crimp  in  his  political  prospects,  Mrs.  Rappallo." 

Walking  up  the  avenue  arm  in  arm  with  his  wife, 
Graham  explained.  Briggs  and  some  of  the  other  in- 
fluential citizens  with  whom  he  had  been  in  conference 
wanted  him  to  stand  as  the  Republican  candidate  for 
election  to  the  legislature  in  the  autumn.  They  seemed 
disinterested  about  it;  they  liked  the  work  he  had  done 
[  215  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

as  chairman  of  the  town  warrant  committee;  they  had 
told  him  that  with  him  in  the  legislature  the  interests  of 
the  district  would  be  well  taken  care  of.  If  he  would 
consent  to  run,  they  were  ready  to  begin  a  quiet  cam- 
paign that  would  eliminate  all  other  candidates  for  the 
nomination. 

"I  told  them  I  would  think  it  over  for  a  week,"  Gra- 
ham said. 

"Why  should  n't  you  do  it?"  Rosamond  asked. 

"Well,  if  I  go  into  politics  at  all,  I  shall  probably  want 
to  stay  hi  it.  I  shall  have  to  sacrifice  some  of  my  law 
practice  and  the  chance  of  increasing  my  earnings  very 
considerably.  It  might  be  wiser  for  me  not  to  enter 
politics  until  I  have  accumulated  more  of  a  practice  and 
more  money." 

"  I  don't  care  anything  about  being  rich,"  Rosamond 
replied.  "I  should  n't  want  the  children  to  be  brought 
up  to  feel  that  they  were  rich."  Graham  laughed,  and 
so  did  Rosamond,  but  she  added,  "Well,  you  can't  take 
any  step  now,  Graham,  without  considering  them,  can 
you?" 

He  admitted  that  he  could  n't. 

"I'd  rather  have  them  grow  up  to  know  you  as  a 
man  working  for  the  public  interest  than  just  for  his  own 
pocket  all  the  time.  Besides,  I  believe  you  'd  be  a  good 
statesman,  Graham."  He  laughed  at  her  quaint  use 
of  the  word;  he  laughed  again  when  she  said,  "I  know 
it  from  the  way  you  talked  at  the  town  meeting." 

Rosamond  could  not  understand  why  he  should 
laugh.  She  had  never  before  tried  to  express  —  she  had 
been  too  shy  to  try  to  express  —  the  feeling  of  pride 
I  216  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

and  admiration  that  had  been  hers  when  she  sat  in  the 
gallery  of  the  town  hall  and  heard  Graham  lead  the 
debate  on  the  floor,  answering  questions  with  readiness, 
replying  to  opponents  with  firmness  and  courtesy, 
carrying  with  him  always  the  majority  of  the  voters. 
From  that  day  she  had  been  convinced  that  in  public 
life  or,  as  she  preferred  to  term  it,  in  "statesmanship," 
there  was  a  proper  field  for  her  husband's  abilities. 

They  talked  about  it  that  evening;  Graham  gave 
Rosamond  a  closer  insight  into  his  ambitions  than  he 
had  ever  done  before.  Hitherto  she  had  assumed  that 
the  practice  of  the  law  and  military  studies  fully  occu- 
pied his  serious  thoughts;  it  interested  her  to  find  that 
he  had  long  been  nursing  other  aspirations.  If  Graham 
should  serve  acceptably  in  the  legislature,  he  might  in 
a  few  years  be  the  choice  of  the  party  for  Congress.  Or 
it  might  be  that  he  should  find  himself  a  candidate  for 
some  important  administrative  office.  His  chance  to 
make  a  start  had  come  rather  earlier  than  he  would  have 
wished,  but  perhaps  that  was  not  sufficient  reason  for 
declining  it. 

Rosamond  again  urged  strongly  the  wisdom  of  accept- 
ing it.  But  afterwards,  when  she  had  gone  to  bed  and 
had  left  Graham  sitting  up  at  work  over  some  town  mat- 
ters, she  lay  awake  for  a  little  while  and  thought  it 
strange  that  she  and  Graham  could  become  so  absorbed 
in  discussing  his  career  when  the  career  that  they  were 
both  really  interested  in  was  that  of  the  unborn  child. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A  HUSBAND'S  INDIAN  SUMMER 

EJune,  Dorothy  went  to  North  East  Harbor  to  pass 
-he  summer  with  her  mother.  She  expected  the  baby 
to  be  born  towards  the  end  of  July. 

George  remained  in  Boston,  doing  double  duty,  for 
Dr.  Armazet  was  taking  a  six  weeks'  vacation  in  Eu- 
rope. The  little  Maryborough  Street  house  wore  a 
look  of  dubious  hospitality;  in  the  darkened  drawing- 
room  huddled  and  swathed  furniture  peered  at  one  sus- 
piciously; the  shades  were  drawn  and  the  floors  were 
bare;  only  George's  consulting-room  retained  its  cozy, 
confidential,  reassuring  aspect.  One  servant  had  re- 
mained to  keep  house  for  him  and  to  give  him  his  break- 
fast; he  lunched  wherever  he  happened  to  be,  and  he 
dined  at  the  club.  The  partial  return  to  the  habits  of 
his  bachelor  days  was  alarmingly  refreshing;  he  told 
himself  that  it  was  n't  actually  the  life,  but  merely  the 
change  that  he  found  agreeable.  With  Dr.  Armazet's 
going  abroad,  George's  work  had  diminished,  so  that 
usually  his  evenings  were  times  of  leisure.  Always  he 
found  a  group  assembled  on  the  club  balcony  overlook- 
ing the  tiny  court.  A  lone  ailanthus  tree,  reputed  to  have 
a  magical  property  of  driving  flies  from  the  neighbor- 
hood, raised  its  foliage  above  the  railing,  on  which  gar- 
den boxes  of  geraniums  and  trailing  vines  did  their  best 
to  promote  the  illusion  of  an  environment  of  suburban 
[  218  1 


greenery.  At  the  long  table  thus  secluded  from  the  view 
of  neighboring  windows,  ten  or  a  dozen  members  were 
accustomed  to  dine  each  evening;  they  welcomed  George 
back  to  their  board  with  cries  of  joy  and  many  a  cock- 
tail. Since  his  marriage  he  had  not  enjoyed  such  relaxa- 
tion as  was  now  his  almost  every  night;  to  sit  smoking 
with  three  or  four  others  through  a  long  evening,  or  to 
play  a  game  of  billiards,  or  to  go  with  a  party  to  some 
flimsy  yet  enlivening  musical  show  revived  him ;  he  felt 
that  socially  he  had  been  growing  stale  and  dull.  He  did 
not  permit  himself  the  irresponsible  enjoyment  in  which 
he  had  formerly  indulged  and  for  which  Steve  Foster 
demonstrated  an  insatiable  capacity;  a  sense  of  duty  to 
his  patients  withheld  him.  But  to  return  for  a  time,  from 
domestic  seclusion  and  professional  service,  to  the  mer- 
riment and  gayety  of  former  days,  compensated  him 
surprisingly  for  his  loneliness  at  home.  Moreover,  the 
relief  from  financial  pressure  was  instantaneous  and 
welcome.  Before  his  marriage  he  had  never  been  obliged 
to  make  the  close  calculations  which  had  now  become  a 
weekly,  almost  a  daily,  task;  he  had  lived  comfortably 
with  seldom  an  impulse  to  overstep  the  limitations  of 
his  income.  Recently,  without  that  impulse  he  had  felt 
himself  thrust  nearer  and  nearer  the  boundary;  only 
by  incessant  struggling  did  he  maintain  his  position 
within  the  lines;  and  now  to  feel  that  there  were  three 
months  of  respite  in  which  he  might  accumulate  a  sur- 
plus had  an  enlivening  influence  upon  his  spirits. 

But  his  greatest  satisfaction  consisted  in  receiving 
Dorothy's  letters.    They  were  the  first  letters  that  she 
had  ever  written  to  him;  they  constituted  almost  a  new 
[    219    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

phase  of  married  life.  The  spoken  words  of  love  in  daily 
intercourse  were  sweet,  but  they  had  grown  of  late  in- 
frequent; an  attitude  of  the  heart  was  beginning  to 
be  taken  for  granted,  and  occupation  and  preoccupa- 
tion had  together  tended  to  curtail  expression.  Let- 
ters carried  messages  and  words  of  affection  that  lips 
had  ceased  to  utter.  George,  reading  the  first  of  these 
letters,  was  moved  deeply.  "I  miss  you,  George,  dear," 
Dorothy  wrote.  "I  think  it  must  be  true  that  people 
need  to  be  separated  once  in  a  while  to  know  how  much 
they  care  for  each  other.  I  look  forward  so  to  your  com- 
ing on  the  fifteenth  of  next  month;  I  shall  feel  safer  when 
you  are  here.  —  Would  n't  it  be  exciting  if  I  should  have 
something  brand-new  to  show  you?  But  I  hope  not;  it 
would  be  too  disconcerting  to  have  him  arrive  without 
his  daddy  here  to  receive  him.  —  Think  about  your 
little  girl  —  oh,  such  an  inappropriate  adjective !  How 
glad  I  shall  be  to  have  it  all  over !  —  Mother  sends  her 
love  and  I'm  folding  a  whole  armful  of  my  own  inside 
this  letter." 

George  was  smitten  with  a  sense  of  selfishness.  He 
cut  short  his  evening  at  the  club  in  order  to  reply  to 
Dorothy's  communication;  he  realized  that  without  such 
letters  and  the  emotion  they  aroused  and  the  thoughts 
they  inspired,  the  freedom  of  his  days  would  be  but 
emptiness.  Writing  to  her,  he  thought  of  her  more  ten- 
derly than  when  she  was  visible  before  him;  he  wished 
that  he  had  shown  her  greater  consideration,  he  imagined 
her  facing  during  all  these  months  the  supreme  destiny, 
fearlessly  aware  of  the  possible  doom  that  might  be 
lurking  behind  the  curtain  of  new  life,  and  a  sudden 
[  220  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

agony  of  reverence  and  dread  seized  him;  with  what 
smiling  heroism  to  await  the  inevitable  peril !  The  long- 
ing was  urgent  in  him  to  go  to  her  and  not  leave  her  side 
until  the  ordeal  was  past.  These  moments  might  be  the 
most  precious  of  all  their  lives.  He  besought  her  to  let 
him  know  if  she  needed  him;  in  that  case  no  other  need 
could  matter. 

Her  reply  showed  that  she  had  been  touched.  But  he 
must  not  worry  about  her;  she  had  never  been  better 
in  her  life.  Her  mother  was  a  comfort  and  was  making 
her  visit  as  restful  and  pleasant  as  possible.  Had  he  seen 
Graham  Rappallo,  or  heard  anything  about  Rosamond? 
A  letter  just  received  intimated  that  Rosamond  was  not 
at  all  well.  Perhaps  George  would  look  up  Sidney  Han- 
ford  and  be  nice  to  him  during  the  summer.  Sidney 
had  rewritten  his  story  and  made  it  into  a  short  novel; 
he  had  sent  her  the  manuscript.  It  had  its  good  points, 
but  she  was  n't  sure  that  it  would  be  wise  to  seek  publi- 
cation; in  fact,  she  had  counselled  him  not  to  make  the 
effort.  Perhaps  she  had  hurt  his  feelings;  any  way,  he 
must  be  very  disappointed.  It  might  please  him  if 
George  would  show  a  little  interest  in  him. 

George  dutifully  asked  Hanford  to  dine  with  him  at 
his  club,  and  Hanford  told  him  quite  ingenuously  of 
Mrs.  Brandon's  condemnation. 

"I've  spent  a  week  thinking  it  over,  and  to-day  I 
destroyed  the  manuscript,"  he  said.  "It's  awfully  good 
of  Mrs.  Brandon  to  be  so  interested  —  and  so  honest." 

A  few  days  later  George  received  a  letter  from  Doro- 
thy, praising  him  for  being  so  nice  to  the  boy,  and 
saying  that  she  was  saving  a  note  of  appreciation  to 
[  221  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

show  him.  Through  the  hot  days  of  midsummer  her 
letters  came  to  him  as  sparkling  and  as  welcome  as  the 
dew.  She  was  sympathetic  with  his  discomfort — which 
was  wholly  imaginary;  she  wished  he  might  be  enjoying 
the  cool  breezes  of  North  East.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he 
was  pursuing  his  practice  under  the  most  favorable  cir- 
cumstances— with  no  domestic  worries,  with  leisure  for 
recreation,  and  with  congenial  companions  for  his  lei- 
sure. The  hard-worked  young  doctor  was  frequently  to 
be  seen  playing  tennis  at  Longwood  or  occupying  a 
front  row  seat  at  a  professional  baseball  game;  and 
his  evenings  spent  on  the  cool  club  veranda,  where  ice 
tinkled  hi  glasses  and  the  smoke  of  cigars  was  wafted 
upwards,  entitled  him  to  no  special  compassion. 

One  day  meeting  Graham  Rappallo  on  the  street,  he 
asked  after  Rosamond.  Graham  seemed  a  little  blue; 
Rosamond  was  not  very  well. 

"She's  hi  bed,  and  the  doctor  thinks  she  will  have 
to  stay  there  pretty  much  all  the  rest  of  the  time  from 
now  on.  It 's  very  hard  for  her,  but  she 's  being  cheerful 
about  it  —  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice  so  that  things 
shall  be  right  in  the  end.  Won't  you  come  out  and  lunch 
with  us  on  Sunday?  With  me,  that  is.  But  Rosamond 
would  be  delighted  to  see  you." 

George  accepted  the  invitation,  even  while  feeling  that 
the  luncheon  would  impose  a  strain.  He  always  liked  to 
see  Rosamond;  she  would  always  have  a  charm  for  him. 
He  found  her  on  that  pleasant  Sunday  morning  sitting 
up  in  bed  on  the  sleeping-porch;  a  light  summer  breeze 
fluttered  some  little  strays  of  hair  across  her  face.  She 
wore  a  lace  cap  with  a  bow  of  pink  ribbon;  lace  ruf- 
[  222  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

fles  showed  beneath  the  sleeve  of  her  pink  dressing- 
gown  as  she  reached  out  her  hand.  And  he  noticed  with 
a  feeling  of  pleasure  that  within  the  folds  of  the  dressing- 
gown  lay  the  aquamarine  pendant. 

"You  don't  look  very  ill,  Rosamond,  and  you  do  look 
perfectly  charming,"  said  George.  "I  could  almost  sus- 
pect you  of  feigning  illness  in  order  to  receive  visitors 
in  this  manner  —  and  costume." 

She  smiled.  "I've  been  prinking  for  you  most  of  the 
morning,  so  I  'm  glad  to  have  the  compliment.  No,  I  'm 
not  ill  at  all,  but  I  can't  do  very  much;  and  this  is  a 
pleasant  place  to  do  nothing  in.  Sit  down,  George,  and 
tell  me  all  about  Dorothy." 

Graham  excused  himself  in  order  to  mix  cocktails. 

George  looked  about  him.  Green-and-white  awnings 
softened  the  light;  green  wicker  chairs  and  table  and 
Navajo  rugs  furnished  comfortably  the  outdoor  room. 
Sitting  up  in  bed  Rosamond  commanded  a  view  down 
the  southwestern  slope,  a  view  that  included  the  pine 
woods  on  the  right  and  the  distant  hills  on  the  left.  The 
meadow  grass  near  the  house  had  just  been  cut  and  lay 
in  sweet-smelling  windrows;  and  a  pink  rambler  flung  its 
blossoms  up  over  the  railing  beneath  the  awning.  George 
commented  on  the  pleasant  view. 

"Yes,  it  needs  only  a  glint  of  water;  that's  the  only 
lack.  We  thought  of  going  to  the  seashore  for  a  while, 
but  the  doctor  thinks  I'd  better  stay  here.  And  it's 
better  for  Graham,  too.  You  know  he's  entering  poli- 
tics —  but  I  should  have  let  him  tell  you  that.  Never 
mind;  he  will.  Dorothy  has  only  a  little  time  to  wait 
now,  has  n't  she?  Are  n't  you  going  to  her  soon,  George?  " 
[  223  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"On  the  fifteenth." 

"Go  earlier  if  you  can;  take  her  by  surprise.  I  don't 
believe  men  know  how  much  we  need  our  husbands  at 
these  times.  Graham  is  so  good  to  me;  I  think  he  gives 
me  more  attention  than  he  can  well  afford  —  and  even 
then  I  'm  often  lonely.  How  exciting  to  be  like  Dorothy 
—  to  have  all  those  months  safely  behind !  November 
seems  so  very  far  away ! " 

"Yes,  it 's  a  mean  wait  —  but  I  don't  know  anybody 
who  would  find  it  better  worth  while." 

She  smiled  a  little,  for  the  thought  pleased  her.  She 
remembered  with  a  feeling  of  tenderness  for  him  that  he 
had  once  hoped  she  might  be  the  mother  of  his  children. 

At  luncheon  George  found  himself  not  subjected  to 
such  constraint  as  he  had  anticipated.  Graham  was 
friendly,  even  confiding,  in  that  he  described  his  plans 
for  his  political  campaign.  After  luncheon,  when  they 
sat  on  the  piazza  smoking,  Graham  could  not  refrain 
from  expressing  his  anxiety  about  Rosamond;  he  grasped 
at  an  opportunity  to  obtain  encouragement  and  reas- 
surance from  a  doctor.  From  the  statement  of  conditions, 
George  felt  that  the  outlook  was  not  altogether  hopeful; 
he  told  Graham,  however,  that  while  in  such  cases  mis- 
haps might  occur,  the  precautions  that  were  being  taken 
reduced  the  possibility  to  a  minimum.  That  this  opinion 
did  not  help  very  much  he  knew,  glancing  at  Graham's 
troubled  eyes. 

"The  man  loves  her,"  he  thought;  "I  was  all  wrong 
about  him  —  all  wrong." 

He  returned  to  Boston  in  a  curiously  chastened  mood. 
Life  was  often  cruel  to  women;  he  could  not  bear  to  think 
[  224  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

that  it  might  be  cruel  to  Rosamond.  And  it  could  not 
be  cruel  to  Dorothy!  In  the  train  he  drew  out  of  his 
pocket  her  last  letter  and  read  it  again  with  a  new 
emotion. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

MOTHER  AND   CHILD  AND  A  LOST  ILLUSION 

DOROTHY'S  boy  was  born  on  the  first  day  of  Au- 
gust, at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
Afterwards  George  went  out  into  the  sunny  garden, 
where  the  bees  were  busy  among  the  poppies  and  the 
phlox  stared  up  at  him  with  its  brightly  questioning  eyes. 
He  sat  down  on  the  bench  under  the  little  plum  tree, 
and  then  looked  up  at  the  window  of  the  room  from 
which  he  had  come.  All  was  quiet  there  now ;  he  wondered 
that  he  should  feel  so  shaken,  so  weak;  he  was  not  ac- 
customed to  have  such  feelings  after  operations.  Dorothy 
had  wished  him  to  stay  with  her,  and  had  clung  to  his 
hand  until  she  slipped  over  the  borderland  of  dreams. 
She  had  dreaded  nothing,  had  borne  the  suffering  with 
a  smile.  "We  won't  make  a  tragic  business  of  his  com- 
ing, George,"  was  the  last  thing  she  said  before  she 
passed  under  the  ether.  And  she  had  not  made  a  tragic 
business  of  it;  she  had  emerged  into  consciousness  so 
promptly  as  to  hear  her  child's  first  lusty  cry;  it  brought 
a  drowsy  smile  to  her  face  even  before  her  eyes  could 
focus  on  the  little  red  squirming  object  held  up  for  their 
delight.  George  had  seen  the  slow  dawning  upon  her 
of  comprehension,  adoration,  joy;  now  she  and  the  baby 
both  slept  and  he  had  come  out  to  feel  the  sunlight,  to 
see  and  smell  the  flowers,  and  to  watch  the  window  of 
that  quiet,  sanctified  room.  Wistaria  climbed  a  trellis 
[  226  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

beneath  it,  a  spray  of  leaves  shook  in  the  breeze  out 
over  the  open  window;  from  within  George  had  noticed 
it  while  Dorothy  clung  to  his  hand;  now  he  looked  at 
it  from  the  other  point  of  view  and  visualized  what  it 
might  see  in  the  room  —  the  calm  face  on  the  pillow, 
the  bassinette  in  the  corner  where  the  indistinguish- 
able little  object  slept. 

Dorothy,  no  less  than  he,  had  wanted  a  boy;  he  was 
the  happier  now  for  dwelling  upon  her  happiness.  As  he 
sat  in  the  sunny  garden,  visions  projected  themselves 
upon  his  mind;  he  saw  Dorothy  walking  with  her  little 
boy  to  meet  him,  smiles  on  their  faces;  he  could  not  quite 
see  the  little  person's  face  under  the  broad  straw  hat 
that  shaded  it,  but  he  cquld  see  the  smile  and  the  short 
white  dress  and  the  bare  chubby  legs;  the  bare  chubby 
legs  broke  into  a  tottering,  toddling,  twinkling  little  run; 
then  he  felt  himself  grasping  the  warm,  soft  little  body, 
clasping  the  warm,  soft  little  hands.  His  imagination 
took  erratic,  ecstatic  flights  into  the  future,  making 
as  it  flew  pictures  of  Dorothy  and  the  boy  —  the  boy 
at  different  ages,  Dorothy  always  young,  always  lovely, 
loving  and  loved. 

Mrs.  Vasmer  came  out  to  him,  still  eager  and  flushed 
with  excitement.  She  had  grown  stout  in  the  last  year; 
she  panted  when  she  sat  down.  In  her  hand  she  held  an 
envelope. 

"The  prettiest  little  baby  I  ever  saw,"  she  declared. 
"And  so  big  and  strong!  Nine  pounds,  the  nurse  says. 
Dorothy  weighed  eight  and  a  half,  and  we  thought  her 
an  enormous  baby.  You  will  call  him  George?" 

"That  seemed  to  be  Dorothy's  wish." 
[    227    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"Naturally  —  for  her  father  and  her  husband.  Dor- 
othy came  through  it  so  splendidly;  I  hope  there  will  be 
lots  of  little  brothers  and  sisters.  We  always  regretted 
that  Dorothy  was  the  only  one." 

"Yes,"  George  answered,  "I  hope  we  shall  have  a 
family  —  not  too  quickly." 

"You  must  let  me  help  now  to  make  things  easier  for 
you.  Dorothy  has  told  me  that  your  pride  forbids  her 
to  devote  her  allowance  to  household  expenses,  but  you 
must  n't  have  any  pride  now  about  getting  little  pres- 
ents occasionally  from  me.  And  I  want  to  celebrate 
this  day  with  a  gift.  There  are  two  checks  in  this  en- 
velope; one  is  for  little  George,  the  other  is  for  your- 
self." 

George  protested.  "I  should  like  to  put  them  both 
to  the  credit  of  little  George." 

"No,  you  mustn't  do  that.  He  will  have  enough 
some  day.  It  will  please  me  if  you  will  use  the  money 
for  yourself.  I  know  that  it  takes  a  good  while  for  a 
young  doctor  to  develop  a  paying  practice.  And  there 's 
no  reason  why  I  should  n't  help  my  son-in-law.  I  'm  well 
able  to." 

"Oh,"  said  George,  "I'm  willing  to  be  helped!  Only 
I  hope  you  have  n't  been  too  liberal;  I  hope  you  won't 
be.  My  father  used  to  say  that  people  were  better  off 
when  they  were  n't  well  off.  You  must  n't  make  me  feel 
rich,  mother." 

"No,  but  comfortable,"  urged  Mrs.  Vasmer  anxiously; 
she  was  herself  the  embodiment  of  comfortable  living. 
"Surely  worry  does  no  one  any  good  —  and  I  want  you 
to  be  free  from  it." 

[    228    J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"When  you  talk  like  that  you  fill  me  with  anxiety  as 
to  the  contents  of  this  envelope!" 

"Open  it,  do!  And  try  to  look  pleasant,  no  matter 
how  you  feel!" 

George  drew  forth  two  checks,  each  for  a  thousand 
dollars.  He  turned  a  humorous  look  on  his  mother-in- 
law. 

"  I  have  always  thought  it  an  excellent  thing  for  chil- 
dren to  have  to  support  their  parents,  after  a  certain  age. 
A  few  more  of  these,  and  little  George  will  be  deprived 
of  a  responsibility  that  he  would  cherish.  —  It's  very 
sweet  of  you,  mother,  but  honestly  —  spare  the  father 
and  spoil  the  grandchild,  if  you  will ! " 

"All  right;  I  shall  try  to  spare  the  father  a  thousand 
dollars  occasionally,"  replied  Mrs.  Vasmer  with  one  of 
her  infrequent  semi-masculine  plunges  at  humor.  "No, 
George,  I  have  n't  volunteered  to  help  you  this  first 
year,  because  I  believe  it  does  young  married  people 
good  to  feel  the  pinch  of  a  small  income.  But  the  virtue 
in  adversity  wears  off  after  a  while  —  and  you  will  gain 
nothing  by  being  always  worried  about  bills.  And  be- 
sides, there's  another  thing."  She  put  her  hand  on 
George's  hand  caressingly.  "  I  did  feel  rather  badly  when 
Dorothy  married  you  so  soon  after  her  father's  death. 
But  I  came  to  be  glad  she  did.  For  you  really  have 
been  a  son  to  me,  my  dear  boy,  in  the  time  when  most 
I  needed  and  wanted  a  son.  So  please  allow  me  these 
little  pleasures." 

"I  feel  this  morning,  mother,  that  I  can  deny  you 
nothing,"  said  George. 

He  admitted  to  himself  a  healthy  satisfaction  in  con- 
[  229  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

teraplating  the  freedom  from  care  that  would  result 
from  these  projected  acts  of  generosity.  He  would  have 
greatly  preferred  to  achieve  that  freedom  by  his  own 
exertions;  he  knew  that  in  a  short  time  now  he  would 
have  achieved  it.  But  to  have  security  already  cover 
him  with  its  wings,  especially  in  this  moment  when  he 
had  incurred  the  unimaginable  liabilities  of  parenthood, 
was  not  unpleasant;  and  it  was  not  unworthy,  so  long 
as  he  did  not  let  himself  slacken  in  his  work. 

He  felt  that  in  that  respect  he  should  be  under  no 
temptation.  The  more  active  the  practice,  the  better  he 
liked  it.  Professional  ambition  had  increased  with  pro- 
fessional success;  it  had  its  birth  in  the  moment  when 
Dr.  Armazet  had  given  him  his  chance,  and  it  had  de- 
veloped under  the  close  association  with  that  untiring 
surgeon.  Sometimes  Dr.  Armazet  would  let  fall  an  anec- 
dote of  George's  father,  whose  intimate  friend  he  had 
been,  though  following  a  different  branch  of  the  pro- 
fession; they  were  anecdotes  that  stirred  the  son's  pride. 
More  and  more  George  was  inspired  with  the  desire  that 
the  Brandon  name  should  go  down  in  honor  in  the  medi- 
cal profession;  with  the  birth  of  his  child  he  hoped  that 
there  should  be  a  third  George  Brandon,  M.D.  His  own 
desire  to  achieve  a  reputation  as  a  skillful  operator  had 
broadened  into  the  wish  to  be,  like  his  father,  sure  and 
subtle  in  diagnosis,  sympathetic  and  understanding  with 
men  and  women;  he  was  growing  constantly  more  stu- 
dious and  more  watchful. 

And  so  before  very  long  he  was  impatient  to  be  back 
at  his  work.  Dorothy,  convalescing,  had  not  much  need 
of  him;  visitors  kept  coming  to  see  her  and  the  baby; 
[  230  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

flowers  filled  her  room.  She  told  him  that  other  people 
appreciated  the  baby  more  than  he  did,  —  that  he  had 
seen  too  many  babies.  Indeed,  she  was  rather  disap- 
pointed because  he  did  not  seem  to  look  upon  the  child 
simply  as  something  cunning  and  sweet  and  adorable, 
a  lovely  little  toy,  but  as  a  young  human  being  whose 
future  claimed  already  serious  thought.  He  was  fussy, 
she  felt,  in  wanting  her  to  diet  for  the  sake  of  increasing 
the  baby's  food-supply;  the  doctor  attending  her  was 
quite  willing  that  it  should  be  supplemented  by  the 
bottle.  Secretly  she  ascribed  George's  persistent  urgings 
on  this  point  to  Hetty  Mallory's  influence  —  the  woman 
bragged  so  about  the  heroic  treatment  she  endured  in 
order  to  nurse  each  of  her  children  ten  months ! 

"Don't  you  want  to  give  him  the  best  possible  start? " 
George  asked. 

"Oh,  if  he  were  a  weak  little  baby,  but  he's  so  strong 
and  he  takes  the  bottle  already  so  well !  And  have  n't 
I  gone  through  enough  for  him  as  it  is ! " 

"I  don't  think  that's  quite  the  way  to  feel  about  it, 
Dorothy." 

He  had  never  before  intimated  that  he  was  in  any 
smallest  degree  disappointed  in  her.  She  resented  the 
implication;  she  felt  that  out  of  consideration  for  her  he 
should  have  withheld  his  comment,  and  that  if  he  still 
loved  her  as  he  had  done  at  first  nothing  could  have 
dragged  such  a  reproof  from  him.  She  looked  at  him 
bitterly  and  said,  "Oh,  very  well,  if  you  speak  to  me  like 
that " ;  she  went  into  the  next  room  and  asked  the  nurse 
to  bring  her  the  gruel  that  she  had  rejected.  She  drank 
it  in  George's  presence  with  a  display  of  anger  like  that 
[  231  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

of  a  passionate  child;  she  knew  that  she  was  being  and 
seeming  childish,  and  it  only  angered  her  the  more.  The 
nastiness  of  the  drink  was  as  nothing  compared  with  the 
fact  that  her  husband  had  chosen  to  express  disappoint- 
ment and  disapproval ;  she  felt  at  that  moment  that  she 
hated  him;  She  said  in  another  burst  of  passion,  — 

"Unless  it's  necessary,  I  don't  want  to  nurse  the  child 
at  all.  It 's  a  hateful,  painful,  horrid  thing  for  a  woman 
to  have  to  do;  it's  disgusting.  I  suppose  you're  shocked. 
Well,  a  woman  can  be  a  good  mother  and  still  detest 
the  feeling  that  she  is  a  sort  of  animal  —  a  cow! " 

He  said  nothing;  she  felt  that  she  resented  more 
than  all  else  the  condemnation  of  his  silence. 

Her  mood  of  resentment  did  not  pass,  nor  did  her  un- 
willingness to  make  the  sacrifice  which  she  regarded  as 
so  unnecessary.  She  extracted  from  both  the  attending 
physician  and  the  nurse  the  assurance  that  the  baby 
might  safely  be  weaned  at  any  time,  and  somewhat  de- 
fiantly announced  to  George  her  intention  of  emanci- 
pating herself  as  soon  as  possible. 

George  did  not  attempt  to  override  her  decision.  He 
put  his  arm  round  her  and  said,  "Of  course,  the  kid  will 
get  on  finely,  Dorothy."  But  his  kindness  and  his 
acquiescence  did  not  deceive  her;  she  knew  that  she  had 
disappointed  him,  and  she  in  turn  felt  injured.  It  was 
as  if  the  merit  of  her  act  in  presenting  him  with  a  son 
was  virtually  canceled  by  her  refusal  to  submit  to  a 
tyrannical  routine  that  would  make  of  mothers  merely 
animals.  Attributing  as  she  did  George's  point  of  view 
to  his  sister  Hetty,  and  believing  that  Hetty  represented 
to  him  the  maternal  standard,  Dorothy  felt  irritated 
[  232  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

and  unsympathetic.  She  had  not  overcome  this  feeling 
when  the  time  arrived  for  him  to  return  to  Boston;  he 
was  aware  of  a  coldness  in  her  farewell.  And  George 
had  a  despondent  foreboding  that  the  little  boy,  who 
should  be  drawing  them  closer  together,  might  be  an 
innocent  agent  in  driving  them  apart. 

George's  thoughts  accompanied  him  in  his  journey. 
He  could  not  conceal  from  himself  the  loss  of  an  illusion, 
and  he  knew  that  he  had  not  concealed  it  from  his  wife. 
He  had  believed  that  she  would  find  every  duty  of  moth- 
erhood a  joy.  The  memory  of  her  face  when  she  had 
emerged  from  anaesthesia  into  consciousness  and  looked 
upon  her  child  he  had  treasured  as  reflecting  for  him  the 
supreme  loveliness  of  woman.  Could  it  be  that  the  ex- 
pression which  had  seemed  to  him  so  beautifully  and 
deeply  significant  had  been  produced  by  only  a  shallow 
pride  in  motherhood? 

He  could  not  help  questioning;  he  refused  to  admit  the 
answer  that  pressed  upon  him  with  the  roughness  of 
truth.  In  the  train  his  thoughts  reverted  to  Rosamond, 
doomed  to  her  bed  for  the  long  period  of  her  waiting, 
wretched  in  body  and  knowing  that  her  hopes  were  in 
peril  of  being  thwarted,  yet  for  the  sake  of  the  little  life 
that  she  was  struggling  to  save  maintaining  cheerfulness 
and  courage.  Suppose  the  baby  delivered  into  her  arms; 
would  Rosamond  shirk  any  least  responsibility  of  a 
mother? 

A  comparison  that  put  his  wife  at  a  disadvantage, 
and  implied  that  there  had  been  a  truer  foundation  for 
his  old  love  than  for  that  which  he  was  pledged  to  cher- 
ish, could  not  be  pursued. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  YOUNG  MAN  REVOLVING  ABOUT  A  YOUNG  MAN'S 
CENTER 

SIDNEY  HANFORD  lodged  in  an  unfashionable 
quarter  of  Boston,  but  his  windows  looked  out  on  a 
pleasant  little  park;  the  houses,  given  over  to  furnished 
lodgings  and  employment  agencies,  were  of  a  substan- 
tial appearance  that  denoted  a  past  acquaintance  with 
prosperity.  The  room  on  the  third-floor  front  of  Number 
9  contained  the  usual  furniture  of  the  furnished  lodgings 
—  a  shabby  sofa  upholstered  in  cloth  of  once  startling 
colors,  an  equally  shabby  and  gayly  upholstered  arm- 
chair, a  small  oak  writing- table,  a  bed  with  the  white 
enamel  flaking  in  spots  from  its  iron  bars,  and  a  Land- 
seer  engraving  to  decorate  a  yellow  wall-paper.  On  one 
corner  of  the  writing-table  a  pile  of  manuscript  gave 
evidence  of  industry.  The  drawers  of  the  table  were 
filled  with  other  manuscripts  whose  soiled  and  thumbed 
appearance  suggested  stupidity  on  the  part  of  editors 
or  inability  on  the  part  of  the  author.  Sidney,  though 
admitting  certain  defects  in  them,  preserved  them  with 
the  hopeful  intention,  when  he  had  achieved  a  reputa- 
tion, of  selling  them  at  inflated  prices  to  the  identical 
persons  who  had  declined  them.  "A  double  pleasure," 
he  was  fond  of  reflecting,  "to  make  an  editor  eat  my 
words  and  his  own." 

Sidney  had  taken  his  quarters  with  the  idea  that  they 
[    234    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

would  be  but  temporary;  he  had  continued  to  occupy 
them  for  the  better  part  of  a  year  untroubled  by  their 
aridity.  He  felt  that  anything  that  was  frankly  tempo- 
rary was  endurable  and  hardly  worth  bothering  about. 
And  as  the  days  went  by,  he  had  become  so  absorbed  in 
the  writing  which  occupied  his  leisure  hours  that  he  was 
indifferent  to  his  surroundings. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  that  his  life  was  at  all 
cheerless  or  lonely.  There  was  a  group  of  young  Dart- 
mouth men  who  had  formed  a  club  table  near  by,  where 
he  dined.  They  were  mostly  fledgling  lawyers,  with  desks 
hi  important  large  offices.  They  wondered  why  Sidney, 
whose  father  had  been  a  Chief  Justice  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  New  Hampshire,  had  not  chosen  the  law.  Their 
conversation  was  of  cases  and  decisions,  and  Sidney  lis- 
tened to  it  sometimes.  But  often  when  they  supposed 
he  was  listening  he  was  pursuing  a  clue  that  he  had  just 
seized  to  the  development  of  the  story  that  he  was  writ- 
ing. They  liked  Sidney  for  his  simplicity  and  at  the 
same  time  they  were  a  little  puzzled  by  it.  They  won- 
dered why  he  did  not  live  in  a  manner  more  in  keeping 
with  the  dignity  of  the  position  that  his  father  had 
held. 

The  Chief  Justice  had  left  his  two  sons  an  income  of 
about  two  thousand  dollars  each.  William,  the  older 
boy,  was  practicing  law  in  the  New  Hampshire  capital, 
was  married  and  had  two  children.  He  deprecated  his 
brother's  choice  of  a  career.  Journalism  was  vague,  liter- 
ature was  delusive.  Only  in  rare  cases  did  they  bring  in 
good  returns.  But  then  William  regarded  his  patrimony 
as  a  fund  which  it  was  necessary  to  increase  as  much  and 
[  235  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

as  rapidly  as  possible,  whereas  to  Sidney  two  thousand 
dollars  a  year  seemed  adequate  for  all  possible  needs. 
Marriage  was  at  present  out  of  his  reckoning;  and  a 
single  man  who  had  two  thousand  dollars  a  year  and  did 
not  go  in  for  the  work  that  he  most  enjoyed  doing,  with- 
out considering  the  question  of  returns,  was  a  fool. 

Newspaper  work  Sidney  did  not  enjoy  doing,  but  he 
had  been  advised  that  it  would  mean  a  valuable  experi- 
ence for  one  who  wished  to  be  a  writer,  and  so  by  per- 
sistent effort  he  had  attached  himself  to  the  "Morning 
Star."  On  an  afternoon  in  September  he  entered  his 
room,  light-hearted  because  he  had  struck  off  the  shackles 
of  his  distasteful  employment.  Henceforth  it  was  to  be 
literature  for  him;  no  more  of  journalism.  He  was  de- 
termined to  be  a  worker  —  no  mere  dilettante.  There 
were  plots  enough,  ideas  enough,  floating  in  his  head, 
if  he  could  guide  them  safely  out  of  that  vasty  deep 
to  port.  Excellent  resolves  he  made.  He  would  be  no 
gusty  worker,  but  systematic  and  methodical  —  a 
worker  like  Trollope  —  or  rather,  for  he  did  not  value 
Trollope's  product  highly,  like  Balzac.  Every  morning 
he  would  work  upon  fiction  from  nine  until  one.  His 
afternoons  he  would  devote  to  going  about  with  his 
eyes  open,  gathering  impressions,  jotting  down  notes, 
collecting  ideas.  Three  evenings  a  week  he  would  devote 
to  writing. 

The  incident  which  had  precipitated  his  withdrawal 
from  the  newspaper  office  was  the  rejection  by  a  maga- 
zine of  the  best  story  that  he  had  written  —  a  story  that 
even  Mrs.  Brandon  had  approved.  The  rejection  had 
disappointed  him,  but  it  had  stiffened  him  in  his  deter- 
[  230  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

mination  to  write  stories,  and,  some  time,  novels.  He 
decided  then  that  the  way  to  succeed  in  an  art  was  to 
practice  it.  And  the  newspaper  work  had  been  inter- 
fering seriously  with  his  opportunities. 

His  first  impulse  on  entering  the  room  which  was 
henceforth  to  be  the  exclusive  scene  of  his  labors  was 
not  to  set  immediately  about  his  writing,  but  to  com- 
municate the  important  fact  of  the  change  in  his  life  to 
some  one  who  would  be  interested.  The  person  that  he 
thus  chose  to  favor  was  not  his  brother;  William's  inter- 
est would  hardly  be  sympathetic.  He  was  sure  that  he 
could  count  on  the  sympathetic  interest  of  Mrs.  Brandon, 
severe  critic  though  she  had  been.  Already  he  had  a 
correspondence  with  her  that  he  greatly  prized.  She  had 
pleased  him  immensely  by  writing  to  him  with  her  own 
hand  of  the  birth  of  her  baby,  a  week  after  the  event; 
he  had  spent  a  whole  evening  in  framing  an  answer 
which  should  combine  emotion  and  restraint  in  suitable 
measure.  His  dread  was  of  slopping  over,  and  yet  his 
letter  could  not  have  been  sincere  if  it  had  not  ex- 
pressed emotion .  Never  before  in  his  life  had  his  thoughts 
dwelt  so  on  the  episode  of  motherhood,  not  even  on  the 
occasion  when  his  sister-in-law  had  achieved  it.  Possi- 
bly it  was  an  evidence  of  increased  maturity  on  his  part; 
but  he  was  aware  that  information  of  an  addition  by 
his  prosaic,  unimaginative,  efficient  sister-in-law  to  her 
family  could  not  arouse  in  him  such  a  sense  of  a  beautiful 
and  poignant  happening  as  that  which  Dorothy  Bran- 
don's letter  had  inspired. 

He  had  written  to  her  of  his  failure  to  secure  publica- 
tion for  the  story  that  she  had  liked,  and  was  hoping  now 
[  237  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

for  a  note  of  condolence  by  every  mail.  He  was  rather 
ashamed  of  the  eagerness  with  which  he  watched  for 
the  postman's  coming  and  of  the  disappointment  which 
ensued.  Now  he  had  reached  the  point  of  wondering  if 
he  had  presumed  too  much  upon  her  interest  or  if  he  had 
written  of  his  failure  in  an  unmanly  way.  The  thought 
that  she  had  perhaps  placed  such  an  interpretation  on 
his  note,  and  been  disgusted  by  it,  tormented  him.  If 
he  had  a  mean  side  he  did  not  want  her  to  know  it  — 
but  he  himself  felt  that  he  had  written  because  she  had 
shown  such  interest  in  the  fortunes  of  his  story,  not 
because,  wounded,  he  must  crawl  to  her  for  petting. 

Now,  if  she  really  believed  him  guilty  of  such  pusil- 
lanimous behavior,  perhaps  he  could  clear  himself  by 
a  letter  showing  that  adversity  had  stiffened  his  am- 
bition. It  was  very  important  that  she  should  continue 
to  think  well  of  him  —  the  most  beautiful  and  charm- 
ing and  intelligent  woman  that  he  had  ever  known. 
More  than  that,  she  had  become  a  vital  factor  hi  his 
writing;  she  was  his  audience  and  his  heroine;  from  each 
facet  of  her  character  that  she  turned  towards  him,  a 
whole  new  character  sprang  upon  his  imagination.  She 
summarized  and  vivified  womankind;  she  spiritualized 
and  typified  her  sex.  Was  it  not  important  for  a  writer 
to  maintain  avenues  of  communication  with  such  a  be- 
ing? 

So  he  determined  that  without  waiting  any  longer 
to  hear  from  her  he  would  announce  to  her  in  his  most 
sparkling  manner  the  step  that  he  had  taken  —  and  he 
hoped  that  she  would  recognize  in  it  a  certain  gallantry. 
During  his  walk  home  from  the  office  he  had  been 
[  238  } 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

phrasing  this  announcement,  and  then  rejecting  the 
phrasing.  He  foresaw  that  he  should  pass  an  agreeable 
evening  striving  to  perfect  the  letter. 

Then  he  opened  the  door  of  Number  9  and  found  on 
the  table  in  the  hall  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Brandon.  He 
stood  there  and  read  it  in  the  dim  light. 

"DEAR  MB.  HANFORD: 

"It's  a  keen  disappointment;  you  betray  so  little 
feeling  that  I  believe  I  must  really  be  more  disappointed 
than  you.  But  it's  only  a  question  of  time  before  your 
work  is  given  a  hearing. 

"And  now  I  want  you  to  come  to  us  here  at  North  East 
for  a  little  visit.  My  husband  thought  you  were  looking 
tired;  you  have  been  working  too  hard.  I  am  sure  you 
need  a  vacation.  Do  let  us  hear  that  you  will  come  for 
the  two  weeks  beginning  the  twentieth  of  September. 
We  can't  offer  you  any  excitement;  I'm  not  able  to  do 
much  as  yet.  But  good  air  and  good  scenery  and  all 
the  time  to  yourself  that  you  want  we  can  promise  you; 
and  mother  joins  with  me  in  hoping  that  you  can  come. 
"Sincerely  yours, 

"DOROTHY  BRANDON." 

The  young  man  read  this  letter  with  happy  excite- 
ment. He  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  ran  up  the  stairs  to 
his  room.  He  was  still  smiling  to  himself  and  his  blue 
eyes  shone  bright  under  their  long  lashes  while  he  stood 
at  his  window  and  looked  down  into  the  little  park.  She 
had  been  disappointed — but  not  in  him !  He  might  have 
known  she  was  too  kind  a  person  to  ferret  out  discredit- 
[  239  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

able  meanings  in  one's  harmless  words.  How  fine  of  her 
to  have  such  faith  in  him!  Oh,  he  must  justify  it! 

The  twentieth  of  September  was  ten  days  distant. 
He  must  work  hard  in  that  interval  so  that  he  might  take 
to  her  some  manuscript  for  discussion  and  criticism. 
She  seemed  always  to  see  unerringly  what  he  was  aiming 
at,  and  to  appreciate  especially  the  little  touches  that 
he  liked  best  himself.  And  then  reading  his  "stuff" 
to  her,  —  he  always  spoke  of  it  as  "stuff,"  —  he  in- 
variably realized  more  keenly  than  at  any  other  time 
where  it  was  crude  and  weak;  without  being  a  cen- 
sorious listener,  she  somehow  awakened  in  him  a  livelier 
sensitiveness  to  imperfection.  And  besides,  he  liked 
her  and  liked  to  be  with  her  because  she  was  so  nice 
to  look  at.  In  fact,  she  was  the  nicest  person  to  look  at 
that  he  knew. 

Sometimes  he  wondered  how  it  had  happened  that 
she  had  married  Brandon.  Not  that  Brandon  was  not 
as  worthy  of  her  as  any  other  man  that  he  could  think  of; 
but  it  seemed  to  Sidney,  groping  back  to  his  first  recol- 
lections, that  when  she  and  Brandon  had  met  on  the 
cattle  ship  it  had  been  as  strangers.  He  wondered  what 
the  story  of  their  romance  might  be. 

He  wrote  the  neatest  little  letter  in  reply  to  hers  that 
he  could  frame,  and  for  the  time  being  forgot  his  pur- 
pose to  emulate  the  industry  of  Balzac. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   IMAGE   OF   HIS   FATHER 

ON  the  twenty-fifth  of  September,  Hetty  Mallory 
arrived  at  North  East  Harbor.  She  had  come  to 
pay  a  brief  visit  to  her  friends  the  Middletons,  and  she 
was  looking  forward  eagerly  to  an  introduction  to 
George's  baby.  Hetty  was  a  woman  who  sincerely  loved 
babies  —  not  merely  her  own.  Rich  and  poor,  clean  and 
dirty,  they  appealed  equally  to  her  as  cunning  and  in- 
teresting and  adorable  —  though  that  last  was  a  word 
she  seldom  permitted  herself  to  use,  feeling  that  it  had 
been  appropriated  and  despoiled  of  value  by  silly,  gush- 
ing women.  When  she  went  shopping  or  walking  in 
Boston,  she  always  carried  with  her  several  pocket  hand- 
kerchiefs and  made  a  point  of  stopping  to  wipe  any  dirty 
baby  face  or  nose  that  she  encountered.  The  slatternly 
mothers  were  more  often  stupefied  than  enraged  by  these 
officious  performances;  their  anger  was  usually  turned 
to  pleasure  by  Hetty's  saying,  "What  a  sweet,  cunning 
baby !  It  is  n't  fair  to  him  (  or  her)  to  let  such  a  cunning 
thing  go  dirty!"  She  was  quite  unerring  in  specifying 
the  sex.  The  nursemaids  along  the  Avenue  and  in  the 
Public  Garden  had  learned  to  watch  for  her  from  afar. 
Some  of  them  thought  she  made  it  a  practice  to  patrol 
these  resorts  of  the  perambulator  pushers.  Many  a  novel- 
reading  young  woman  lounging  on  a  seat  had  Hetty 
chided  because  the  sun  was  shining  in  her  charge's  eyes. 
I  241  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Liking  babies  as  she  did,  she  liked  Dorothy — in  her 
thoughts  —  better  for  having  one.  She  forgave  her  for 
not  answering  her  letter  of  congratulation,  for  not  reply- 
ing to  her  eager  questions  about  color  of  eyes,  amount 
of  hair,  and  potential  resemblances.  George  himself 
when  appealed  to  on  these  points  had  been  vague.  Hetty, 
fond  of  her  brother,  hoped  that  the  little  George  looked 
like  him,  was  eager  to  discover  that  he  did.  So  at  noon 
she  walked  the  half-mile  from  the  Middletons'  house  to 
Mrs.  Vasmer's.  In  her  hand,  done  up  in  white  tissue 
paper,  she  carried  a  present  for  the  baby  —  a  mother- 
of-pearl  teething-ring  with  three  small  bells  attached. 
She  had  provided  each  of  her  own  babies  with  a  similar 
serviceable  toy.  It  was  by  no  means  the  only  present 
that  she  had  bestowed  upon  young  George:  a  pair  of 
little  shoes,  a  knitted  blanket,  and  a  flannel  sleeping-bag 
had  already  testified  to  her  interest  and  affection,  and 
it  is  to  be  said  for  Hetty  that  she  cherished  no  resent- 
ment because  of  Dorothy's  rather  inexcusable  neglect 
to  acknowledge  these  gifts.  Hetty  was  always  willing 
to  make  allowances  for  women  before  and  after  child- 
birth, for  they  were  so  often  queer  at  such  times;  she 
regarded  herself  as  rather  uncommonly  normal  in  her 
manner  of  undergoing  the  experience. 

It  was  a  summery  day,  with  a  bright  sun  overhead, 
and  Hetty  walked  leisurely,  carrying  a  pink  parasol 
tilted  over  her  shoulder.  She  was  a  slim,  graceful  young 
woman;  she  had  style  and  distinction  of  bearing;  those 
who  did  not  like  her  felt  that  her  manner  of  strolling 
denoted  supreme  self-satisfaction.  They  also  thought 
her  eyes  were  too  round  and  too  brown  and  the  lower 
[  242  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

part  of  her  face  too  solidly  made.  But  to  most  people 
her  expression  was  pleasant,  and  it  surely  was  so  now 
when  she  ascended  the  steps  of  Mrs.  Vasmer's  house 
and  saw  Mrs.  Vasmer  reading  at  the  end  of  the  piazza 
in  the  shelter  of  the  vines. 

Mrs.  Vasmer  gave  her  a  surprised  and  cordial  wel- 
come, wished  that  she  would  come  and  make  them  a 
visit  after  she  finished  with  the  Middletons,  and  asked 
about  the  little  Mallorys.  Hetty  launched  forth  eagerly: 
Phil  had  learned  to  swim;  Susie,  poor  child,  had  suffered 
wretchedly  from  middle  ear,  but  fortunately  had  escaped 
the  necessity  for  an  operation;  Freddy  could  pick  out 
letters  now  on  his  blocks.  But  after  all  she  had  not 
come  to  talk  about  her  children ;  she  was  simply  crazy 
to  see  little  George.  And  Dorothy  —  though  that  she 
added  as  an  afterthought. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Vasmer.  "Dorothy  will  be  so 
delighted  to  see  you  and  show  you  her  boy.  We're  very 
proud  of  him;  he's  a  good  baby."  She  got  slowly  out 
of  her  reclining-chair.  "  I  think  we  shall  find  Dorothy 
in  the  garden.  I  'm  so  glad  you  came  to-day  and  so  can 
see  the  garden  as  well  as  the  baby.  I  feel  as  if  any  day 
now  might  be  its  last;  I  can't  remember  when  we  have 
gone  so  late  as  this  at  North  East  without  frost.  The 
asters  and  dahlias  are  really  splendid  —  dukes  and 
princes  now,  and  one  frosty  night  will  transform  them 
all  into  a  lot  of  dismal  battered  brown  friars  —  dirty 
things  that  you  can't  have  round.  The  dahlias  especially 
after  a  frost  —  they  always  seem  to  me  like  so  many 
Cardinal  Wolseys  nodding  and  muttering  their  melan- 
choly speech  to  themselves." 

[    243    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

This  was  all  too  fanciful  to  interest  Hetty;  she  said, 
as  they  proceeded  across  the  lawn  past  the  great  copper 
beech,  "Yes,  the  first  hard  frost  makes  a  garden  a  per- 
fect fright." 

The  gate  in  the  tall  privet  hedge  was  open  and  they 
passed  through  it  noiselessly  on  the  grass  walk.  Then 
there  opened  out  before  Hetty  a  truly  regal  display  of 
color  — gorgeous  cactus  dahlias  with  noble  blossoms  as 
splendid  as  any  golden  chrysanthemum,  peony  dahlias 
with  blossoms  as  soft  as  any  rose,  asters  in  masses  blue 
and  pink  and  white,  here  and  there  clumps  of  late  lin- 
gering phlox  and  of  brilliant  helianthus  —  the  grass 
plots  smooth  as  a  carpet,  the  fountain  in  the  center 
playing  lightly  over  the  marble  shoulders  of  a  naked 
boy,  posed  with  arms  outstretched  as  if  for  a  dive  into 
the  pool.  In  the  gay  and  quiet  peacefulness  of  the  in- 
closure  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice  reading  blended  with 
the  tinkling  of  the  spray.  The  sound  proceeded  from  a 
nook  in  the  privet  hedge  beyond  a  plum  tree;  Hetty  saw 
a  white-trousered  leg  projecting;  then  Mrs.  Vasmer 
called,  "See  who's  here,  Dorothy." 

The  white-trousered  leg  dropped,  the  reading  ceased 
abruptly,  and  from  the  nook  emerged  Dorothy,  followed 
in  a  moment  by  Sidney  Hanford.  Hetty  gave  the  young 
man  a  keen  glance;  she  knew  quite  as  well  as  if  she  had 
seen  it  that  he  was  buttoning  a  manuscript  inside  his 
coat.  Always  she  was  prejudiced  against  him;  she  dis- 
liked all  hangers-on  of  married  Women,  and  truthfully 
believed  that  she  would  immediately  discourage  any  man 
who  showed  a  tendency  to  attach  himself  to  her.  Now 
to  Hetty's  mind  there  was  a  subtle  indecency  in  Hanford's 
[  244  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

being  here  at  this  time,  just  as  there  had  been  in  his 
frequently  accompanying  Dorothy  to  public  places  at  a 
time  when  her  appearance  proclaimed  her  expectant 
condition.  Hetty  resented  his  presence;  unconsciously 
the  happy,  eager  expression  that  could  make  her  face 
attractive  vanished,  and  the  look  of  cool  and  supercil- 
ious composure  that  Dorothy  detested  occupied  it  like 
a  fortress. 

She  bowed  in  reply  to  Dorothy's  introduction  of  Han- 
ford;  she  did  not  offer  her  hand. 

"I  arrived  just  this  morning,"  she  said.  "Of  course 
I  wanted  to  see  the  baby  at  once." 

"Oh,  the  baby!"  exclaimed  Dorothy.  "He's  all  that 
anybody  wants  to  see  now.  Nobody  comes  to  see  me. 
That's  why  I  got  Mr.  Hanford  down  here;  I  knew  that 
he  would  really  be  more  interested  in  me  than  in  the 
baby." 

Hanford  attempted  to  protest  his  enthusiasm  for  the 
baby,  but  even  this  did  not  propitiate  Hetty. 

"You're  looking  very  well  yourself,"  she  said  stiffly  to 
Dorothy. 

And  Dorothy  interpreted  this  to  mean,  "Better  than 
you  have  any  right  to  look,  if  you  were  doing  your  duty 
by  your  infant." 

She  chose  to  exhibit  herself  as  an  advanced  type  of 
maternal  indifference. 

"The  nurse  is  probably  feeding  him  now,  so  you've 
come  at  a  good  time.  I  don't  have  much  to  do  with  him 
myself.  Babies  at  his  age  are  cunning  enough,  but  after 
all  they  have  n't  much  variety;  they  don't  satisfy  for 
very  long  one's  social  needs  —  you  '11  excuse  us,  won't 
[  245  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

you,  Mr.  Hanford,  while  we  go  in  and  inspect  little 
George." 

"Dorothy!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Vasmer.  "What  a  pose! 
You  know,  Hetty,  she  really  thinks  there  never  was  such 
a  baby." 

"Of  course,"  said  Hetty;  and  then  had  the  unpleasant 
feeling  that  Dorothy's  laugh  was  directed  both  at  Mrs. 
Vasmer  and  at  herself,  as  if  mocking  their  desire  to  seem 
credulous. 

But  in  the  presence  of  the  infant  Hetty  quite  recov- 
ered her  good  temper,  quite  forgot  Dorothy's  unnatural 
behavior.  The  baby  had  just  finished  his  bottle  and  was 
in  his  best  post-prandial  mood;  his  eyes  twinkled  at  the 
visitor  precociously;  he  lay  on  his  back  and  flopped  his 
arms  about  and  drooled  with  obviously  sociable  intent. 
Hetty  exclaimed  over  him  rapturously,  turning  now 
to  Mrs.  Vasmer,  now  to  Dorothy. 

"The  living  image  of  his  father!  Is  n't  he,  Mrs.  Vas- 
mer? George's  eyes  and  mouth  and  nose — yes,  and  his 
ears.  It's  the  cunningest  little  likeness.  I  always  think 
it  nice  when  the  first  baby  looks  like  his  father  and  is 
named  for  him.  —  Oh,  you  darling!" 

She  bethought  herself  of  the  teething-ring;  she  took 
it  out  of  its  wrapping  and  shook  it  in  front  of  the  baby's 
eyes.  He  watched  it  gravely  for  a  moment  and  then  had 
a  paroxysm  of  silent  laughter.  "Oh,  you  darling!"  said 
Hetty  again,  and  pressed  the  ring  into  the  tiny  hand, 
which  held  it  for  an  instant  and  then  dropped  it. 

"I  must  n't  keep  him  any  longer  from  his  sleep,"  said 
Hetty  regretfully.  "Those  dear  little  blue  eyes!"  Thus 
she  took  a  reluctant  farewell;  Dorothy  had  to  concede 
[  246  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

AS  a  point  in  her  favor  that  she  did  not  kiss  the  baby  and 
go  perfectly  maudlin  over  him.  A  sense  of  justice  urged 
her  to  an  act  of  graciousness. 

"Thank  Aunt  Hetty  for  the  rattle,  baby,"  she  said. 
"And  also  for  the  pretty  shoes  and  the  nice  blanket  and 
the  warm  sleeping-bag  that  your  mother  had  n't  the 
decency  to  acknowledge." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  Dorothy.  I'm  glad  if  they're 
useful.  He 's  so  like  George !  —  To  look  at  me  as  he 
did!  He's  the  most  precocious  baby!" 

"  I  hope  he  won't  be  precocious,"  Dorothy  said.  "  Pre- 
cocious infants  develop  into  the  most  trying  children." 

Mrs.  Vasmer  asked  Hetty  if  she  would  not  stay  to 
luncheon.  No;  Hetty  was  sorry,  but  she  had  to  hurry 
back  to  the  Middletons.  Besides,  Dorothy's  last  re- 
mark had  struck  her  as  so  profoundly  unappreciative 
of  the  baby  that  she  thought  she  had  better  go  before 
she  revealed  her  feelings,  —  as  if  they  had  not  rushed 
already  to  her  face  and  revealed  themselves,  an  army 
in  arms. 

She  took  her  farewell  and  moved  down  the  walk  to 
the  gate,  slender  and  graceful,  and  shielding  behind  the 
pink  parasol  the  small  fortress  that  she  bore  upon  her 
shoulders  and  that  was  still  bristling  with  the  weapons 
of  offense  which  she  imagined  she  had  concealed. 

Dorothy  returned  to  the  author  whose  reading  had  been 
interrupted.  She  was  fuming;  Hetty's  frank  rejoicing, 
in  which  there  was  to  be  detected  an  element  of  congrat- 
ulation that  the  baby  was  "the  image"  of  George,  had 
been  the  last  annoying  episode  of  an  irritating  encounter. 
It  was  all  right  that  the  baby  should  look  like  his  father, 
[  247  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

but  it  would  have  been  all  right,  too,  if  he  had  happened 
to  look  like  his  mother;  there  would  have  been  no  need 
for  any  one  to  commiserate  him. 

"That  woman  always  contrives  to  get  on  my  nerves," 
Dorothy  said  bluntly  to  Hanford.  "She  makes  me  want 
to  live  up  to  the  worst  that  I  see  she's  thinking  of  me. 
Do  people  ever  affect  you  in  that  way?  " 

Hanford  raised  his  long-lashed  eyelids.  "I  don't  think 
of  any  one.  Of  course  some  people  are  exasperating. 
I  did  n't  suppose  you  ever  let  yourself  be  annoyed  by 
them." 

She  realized  that  this  was  the  first  confidence  she  had 
made  to  him,  the  first  disclosure  that  she  had  made  of 
herself,  and  she  wished  she  might  recall  it.  "If  there 
are  people  that  I  don't  mind  having  think  me  worse 
than  I  am,  there  are  others  that  I  want  to  have  think 
me  nicer  than  I  am,"  she  said  instantly.  "And  that's 
why  I  wish  now  I  had  n't  made  that  horrid  remark." 

He  flushed  as  he  did  always  when  he  was  both  pleased 
and  embarrassed,  and  she  thought  how  really  pretty 
now  his  long  lashes  were  against  his  cheeks. 

"I'm  glad  if  you  care  at  all  about  my  approval,"  he 
said  shyly.  "As  to  that,  why,  there's  one  thing  I'm 
sure  of,  and  that  is  that  you're  just  as  nice  as  I  think 
you." 

Stooping  she  plucked  a  large  purple  aster  and  put  it 
in  his  button-hole.  The  young  man  was  aware  of  an 
odd,  pleasant  sensation  while  her  nimble  slender  fingers 
played  about  the  breast  of  his  coat,  pulling  and  patting 
the  flower  into  place.  It  was  almost  as  if  they  were 
caressing  him,  though  he  knew  of  course  they  were  n't. 
[  248  1 


"You're  better  at  imagining  characters  than  at  ob- 
serving them,"  she  remarked.  "Now  let's  go  on  with 
the  story." 

Reading  his  story  after  the  interruption  Hanford  felt 
that  he  was  not  so  very  good  at  imagining  characters. 
His  people  seemed  more  than  ordinarily  wooden  and  un- 
real. He  wondered  if  she  ever  again  would  decorate  him 
with  a  flower;  over  and  over  he  revived  the  sensation  of 
that  moment  when  her  nimble  slender  fingers  felt  as  if 
they  might  be  caressing  him  a  little  —  though  of  course 
they  were  n't. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

HETTY   FREES   HER   MIND 

UPON  her  arrival  at  the  North  Station  by  the  night 
train  from  Mount  Desert,  Hetty  at  once  entered 
a  telephone  booth  and  called  up  her  house  at  Cohasset. 
She  learned  that  the  children  were  well;  she  spoke  with 
each  of  them  in  turn,  thrilled  at  again  hearing  their 
voices,  as  were  they  by  the  sound  of  hers.  Never  before 
had  she  been  so  long  away  from  them.  She  said  that  she 
would  come  home  after  luncheon,  as  she  had  shopping 
to  do  that  would  occupy  her  all  the  morning,  urged  them 
to  be  good  children,  roused  their  excitement  by  suggest- 
ing that  she  might  have  some  presents  for  them,  and  rang 
off  reluctantly  but  thriftily  when  the  time  allotted  for 
pay-station  conversation  had  expired. 

Then  she  telephoned  to  George  and  caught  him  just 
as  he  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  house.  She  asked 
him  to  lunch  with  her  at  the  Touraine  and  said  that  she 
would  expatiate  upon  the  charms  of  his  infant. 

Though  she  was  a  shopper  of  an  investigating  and 
examining  habit,  Hetty  had  several  times  to  rouse  her- 
self from  preoccupation  during  her  morning's  tasks.  She 
was  not  sure  just  what  or  how  much  she  ought  to  say 
to  George. 

As  was  usually  the  case  with  Hetty  after  undergoing 
such  a  process  of  self-examination,  she  ended  by  express- 
ing all  that  was  in  her  mind. 

"  George,"  she  said,  when  they  were  seated  at  a  table 
[  250  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

in  a  corner  of  the  dining-room,  "your  baby  is  the  cun- 
ningest  I  have  ever  seen.  I  believe  that  if  Dorothy's 
experience  with  babies  were  greater,  she  would  realize 
more  fully  what  a  prize  he  is." 

"Dorothy  appreciates  him,  judging  from  the  tone  of 
her  letters,"  said  George. 

"She  does  n't  get  hah*  the  fun  out  of  him  she  might. 
It 's  a  pity,  I  think,  that  Dorothy  can't  be  content  just 
now  to  let  all  her  interests  center  about  her  child." 

"I'm  sure  you're  mistaken  in  thinking  they  don't." 

"  If  I  'm  mistaken,  then  I  share  a  mistake  that  is  pretty 
general  at  North  East  Harbor.  People  talk  about  it 
quite  freely.  This  young  Hanford  who  is  making  a  visit 
there — why,  she  ought  n't  to  want  to  have  visitors  at 
this  time,  she  ought  n't  to  want  to  have  the  companion- 
ship of  a  man  not  her  husband!" 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Hetty,"  said  George  impatiently. 
"Nothing  is  more  innocent." 

"I  don't  mean  to  imply  anything  to  the  contrary. 
It's  just  that  her  wanting  to  have  him  round  at  this 
time  is  n't  normal  or  natural;  it's  only  that  which  excites 
comment.  The  Middletons  took  me  on  a  picnic  to  one  of 
the  islands;  they'd  invited  a  number  of  people,  among 
them  Dorothy  and  her  guest.  Dorothy  and  the  guest 
came;  they  sat  together  in  the  boat  sailing  over,  they 
kept  pretty  much  to  themselves  on  the  island,  and  they 
were  together  in  the  boat  coming  home.  Every  one 
commented  on  it." 

"Then  every  one  is  to  be  despised.  Young  Hanford  is 
just  a  boy  —  naive,  simple,  with  some  literary  taste  and 
ambition  which  I'm  not  qualified  to  pronounce  upon. 
[  251  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Dorothy  is  interested  in  things  he  has  written  and  has 
helped  him  with  her  criticism." 

"But,  George,  it  isn't  that  people  are  talking  any 
scandal  about  her  and  the  young  man.  It 's  simply  that 
to  behave  as  she  does  seems  to  indicate  a  carelessness  that 
does  n't  quite  befit  motherhood.  What  people  wonder 
at  is  that  she'd  rather  play  about  in  these  ways  than 
with  her  baby.  She  does  n't  want  to  be  bothered  at  all 
with  the  care  of  the  baby;  and  unless  you  interfere  the 
child  will  be  brought  up  entirely  by  nurses,  will  have  only 
a  slight  knowledge  of  his  mother  and  a  perfunctory  re- 
gard for  her,  and  will  very  speedily  grow  away  from  her 
influence  and  yours." 

"I  think  you  are  giving  yourself  quite  unnecessary 
concern  about  the  matter,  Hetty." 

"I'm  sorry  if  I've  offended  you  by  speaking.  I  realize 
that  Dorothy  does  n't  like  me;  I  seem  to  antagonize  her. 
You  may  be  sure,  George,  that  I've  been  very  careful 
not  to  indicate  to  her  any  disapproval  of  her  course." 

"Naturally.  After  all,  Hetty,  there  is  more  than  one 
way  of  bringing  up  a  child.  While  Dorothy  is  at  her 
mother's,  it  is  best  for  her  to  get  as  much  rest  and  re- 
creation as  possible  and  build  up  her  strength;  the  baby 
does  not  suffer  from  any  neglect.  When  she  comes  back 
to  Boston,  you  will  find  that  she  will  be  just  as  devoted 
a  mother  as  you  are  yourself." 

"I  don't  pretend  to  any  superior  virtue,"  declared 
Hetty,  "only  to  superior  experience.  And  if  I've  said 
more  than  I  should,  please  try  to  forgive  me,  George." 

She  was  truly  contrite;  she  felt  that  her  self-imposed 
mission  had  been  injudicious  and  had  resulted  in  failure. 
[    252    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

What  she  had  hoped  to  accomplish  she  did  not  exactly 
know,  but  she  had  thought  that  if  George's  eyes  were 
opened  he  might  perform  some  beneficial  operation  which 
she  vaguely  termed  to  herself  "putting  his  foot  down." 
It  was  her  opinion  that  Dorothy  needed  to  be  controlled 
with  a  firm  hand;  she  had  hoped  to  show  George  the 
necessity  for  exercising  it. 

But  of  course  George  loved  and  admired  the  girl  and 
could  n't  be  made  to  see  the  necessity.  Hetty  refrained 
from  repeating  what  Fanny  Middleton  had  told  her; 
Dorothy  had  said  to  Fanny  that  she  liked  to  see  the 
baby  when  he  was  being  given  his  bath,  but  that  she 
never  wanted  or  intended  to  bathe  him  herself,  and 
both  Fanny  and  Hetty  agreed  in  regarding  such  a  state- 
ment as  symptomatic;  a  woman  who  did  n't  want  to 
bathe  her  baby  with  her  own  hands !  Evidently  Dorothy 
meant  to  be  an  ultra-modern  type  of  mother.  And  that, 
in  Hetty's  opinion,  was  about  the  most  pernicious  use 
a  woman  could  make  of  herself. 

Sitting  at  the  table,  Hetty  felt  sorry  for  George.  It 
would  be  cruel  if  he  was  to  find  that  he  was  mismated 
—  if,  after  the  way  in  which  he  had  pulled  himself  to- 
gether and  was  making  himself  count  in  the  community, 
he  should  fail  to  receive  true  support  from  his  wife.  To  see 
things  being  done  just  wrong,  by  a  person  just  selfish 
and  obstinate  enough  to  persevere  in  doing  them  wrong 
because  those  methods  best  suited  her  pleasure  and  con- 
venience, must  be  hard  for  a  man  who  loved  his  child 
and  wished  to  maintain  his  love  for  his  wife.  Hetty 
thought  that  George  had  lost  much  of  his  natural 
gayety,  and  she  did  not  believe  it  was  due  entirely  to  the 
[  253  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

seriousness  of  his  professional  responsibilities.  Doubt- 
less he  felt  in  his  heart  as  she  did  about  Dorothy's  neglect 
of  her  maternal  privileges,  even  though  bound  by  a 
sense  of  loyalty  to  deny  it.  And  Hetty,  smitten  by  this 
thought,  wished  that  by  her  own  censorious  speech  she 
had  not  added  to  his  burden. 

Though  not  given  to  demonstrativeness  and  disap- 
proving highly  of  it  in  public  places,  Hetty  could  not 
help  conveying  to  George  a  special  sign  of  affection 
when  they  were  parting.  George  was  regretting  that  he 
could  not  accompany  her  to  the  station  and  put  her  on 
the  train;  his  office  hour  called  him.  Hetty,  about  to 
enter  a  cab,  turned  suddenly  and  taking  his  arm  pressed 
it  and  clung  to  it. 

"Dear  old  brother,"  she  said;  "I  know  I'm  awfully 
narrow-minded;  do  try  to  forgive  me."  She  released  him 
and  stepped  into  the  cab.  "  If  you  ever  have  a  free  night 
or  a  Sunday,  do  come  to  Cohasset." 

George  waved  his  hand  cheerfully,  but  the  moment 
that  Hetty  was  gone  cheerfulness  vanished  from  his 
face.  To  be  aware  of  an  unworthiness  in  his  wife  was 
to  be  saddened;  to  learn  that  others  were  aware  of  it 
and  were  commenting  on  it  was  to  be  deprived  even  of 
the  dignity  of  sadness.  He  walked  the  short  distance  to 
the  corner  slowly,  with  downcast  eyes.  At  the  corner, 
waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  cross  to  the  Common,  he 
saw  a  cab,  driven  at  more  than  ordinary  speed,  swing 
round  from  Tremont  into  Boylston  Street.  He  recognized 
Graham  Rappallo  sitting  inside,  gazing  straight  ahead, 
and  looking,  George  thought,  even  in  that  preoccupied 
instant,  as  if  he  did  not  see  anything. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ROSAMOND 

IN  the  evening  of  that  day  George  heard  from  Graham 
Rappallo,  over  the  telephone,  that  Rosamond  had  a 
son.  There  was  little  joyfulness  hi  the  father's  announce- 
ment. The  baby,  premature  by  two  months,  weighed 
only  two  and  a  quarter  pounds;  its  spark  of  life  flickered 
feebly;  Rosamond's  condition  was  critical.  As  the  days 
went  by  there  came  no  reassuring  message.  The  baby 
still  lived,  yet  from  moment  to  moment  its  grasp  on  life 
seemed  precarious.  In  Rosamond's  case  no  improvement 
was  manifest.  Finally  Dr.  Armazet  was  called  into  con- 
sultation. From  the  house  of  the  patient  Dr.  Armazet 
telephoned  to  George,  summoning  him  to  come  at  once 
with  surgical  supplies.  What  the  surgeon  said  was 
ominous;  George  made  his  preparations  with  rapid  fin- 
gers and  a  heavy  heart. 

It  was  mid-afternoon  of  the  blowy  October  day  when 
he  alighted  from  the  train  at  the  Dover  Station.  Graham 
himself  was  waiting  for  him,  holding  in  a  restless  big  bay 
that  scorned  the  harness  and  danced  for  a  run  across 
country.  Sleepless  nights  and  torturing  fears  had  made 
their  mark  on  Graham's  face;  a  dull  tone  overlaid  its 
healthy  dark  color,  and  lines  had  been  harrowed  about 
the  mouth  and  eyes.  But  he  smiled  and  reached  down 
to  George  a  steady  hand. 

George  helped  the  station-master  to  stow  the  small 
trunk  of  supplies  behind  the  seat  and  then  mounted 
[  255  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

beside  Graham.  The  horse  was  off  at  a  leap.  To  George's 
question  about  Rosamond,  Graham  replied,  "She's 
facing  it  bravely.  She  would.  Dr.  Armazet  has  en- 
couraged her.  He  is  hopeful,  I  think.  Dr.  Parsons  agrees 
that  an  operation  is  necessary.  The  question  is  whether 
she  has  vitality  enough  to  stand  it.  And  if  the  baby 
should  die  — " 

For  an  instant  in  the  eyes  turned  towards  him  George 
read  anguish.  Then  he  had  only  the  profile  view  of 
Graham's  face,  which  in  its  immobility  seemed  to  express 
apathy  under  torture. 

It  was  torture  that  George  shared.  While  he  sat 
in  the  tram  the  thought  of  Rosamond  so  stricken  had 
brought  her  before  him  with  a  poignant  nearness,  a 
poignant  tenderness;  his  dear  Rosamond  of  old;  he  saw 
her  as  she  had  looked  entering  the  church  to  be  mar- 
ried, as  she  had  looked  when  her  startled  soft  eyes 
fell  on  him;  he  could  not  identify  that  bright  and  gay 
creature  with  one  whose  destiny  was  tragedy  and  doom. 
Yet  already  destiny  was  brooding  over  her  while  she 
lay  between  life  and  death,  destiny  inert  and  uncom- 
passionate.  If,  as  Graham  said,  the  baby  should  die !  — 

The  dried  grasses  of  the  uplands  ran  in  long  columns 
under  the  wind,  darted  from  shadow  into  sunlight.  A 
knoll  of  oaks  stood  out  in  mellow  bronze.  Maples  and 
sumach  and  birches  flamed  and  flashed  and  fluttered 
pennons.  Nature  seemed  high-spirited  and  playful,  the 
breeze  went  tilting  impudently  by,  and  sang  in  the  trees. 
But  a  cornfield,  full  of  withered,  uncut  stalks,  was  out  of 
key  and  gave  forth,  while  the  horse  trotted  by,  a  faint 
and  sombre  melody. 

[    256    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

Ten  minutes  later  George  was  in  Rosamond's  room. 
She  had  asked  to  see  him  alone.  The  sight  of  her  brought 
his  emotion  to  the  surface;  he  set  his  lips  to  keep  them 
from  quivering,  he  clasped  her  hand  in  silence.  The 
pressure  of  it  was  warm  and  strong;  the  pallor  and  thin- 
ness of  her  face  served  to  bring  out  more  strikingly  for 
him  the  soft  lustre  of  her  eyes. 

"I'm  glad  you  're  here  to  help  me,  George." 

"Thank  you,  Rosamond.  You  can  have  complete 
faith  in  Dr.  Armazet.  Before  you  realize  it,  you'll  be 
out  of  ether — " 

"Yes,  I  know."  She  still  clung  to  his  hand.  "I  don't 
want  to  die;  I  shall  make  a  fight.  My  little  son  needs 
me.  I  have  n't  been  of  much  use  to  him  —  bringing  him 
into  the  world  so  unprepared  —  I  have  seen  him  only 
twice  —  poor  little  mite !  They  don't  dare  show  him  to 
me;  it  is  dangerous  to  disturb  him.  I  must  n't  ask  to  see 
him  now.  They  feed  him  with  a  medicine  dropper.  I 
shall  never  know  what  it  might  be  to  have  him  at  my 
breast.  And  I  had  looked  forward  to  that.  Oh,  I  want  to 
be  a  good  mother  to  him — I  want  to  make  up  to  him  for 
this  bad  start;  I  feel  that  I  can.  George,  you  and  Dr. 
Armazet  must  make  me  live." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  promise  it,"  George  cried. 

She  smiled  and  let  go  his  hand.  He  was  leaving  the 
room  when  she  called  him  back.  She  motioned  to  him 
to  bend  over  her,  and  then  in  a  low  voice  she  said,  — 

"If  it  goes  wrong,  George,  you'll  tell  Graham  why  I 
did  n't  ask  to  see  my  baby?" 

"Yes,  Rosamond.   But  it  won't  go  wrong." 

He  declared  it  passionately. 
[    257    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

That  night  Dr.  Armazet  and  George  slept  but  little; 
one  or  the  other  was  constantly  in  attendance  at  Rosa- 
mond's bedside,  keeping  her  under  morphia,  noting  her 
pulse,  and  her  temperature,  trying  to  soothe  and  en- 
courage her  in  the  intervals  of  consciousness  and 
agony.  Towards  morning  her  pulse  became  suddenly 
weaker,  her  temperature  mounted,  she  muttered  deli- 
riously, there  were  alarming  symptoms  of  sinking.  To- 
gether George  and  Dr.  Armazet  fought  off  the  creeping 
enemy.  Rosamond  returned  to  consciousness  and  agony. 
Her  lips  moved  in  silence.  George  bent  over  and  asked 
her  what  she  would  say. 

"This  torture,"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  I  mustn't 
cry,  I  must  n't  scream;  it  might  wake  my  little  baby." 

"No,  you  need  n't  be  afraid  of  that,"  George  said. 

She  looked  at  him  with  frightened  eyes.  "  Is  my  baby 
dead?" 

"No,  no,  no!"  George  cried,  putting  his  hand  on  her 
forehead.  "He's  all  right." 

"You  would  say  that  to  me  anyway." 

"But  it's  true!  Rosamond,  dear;  the  baby's  doing 
finely." 

He  saw  that  he  had  not  dispelled  her  doubt,  her  dread; 
the  wild,  frightened  look  remained  in  her  eyes.  Soon  she 
was  again  hi  delirium.  Morphia  quieted  her,  and  she 
slept  until  the  light  streamed  in  between  the  slats  of  the 
blinds.  Then  she  awoke,  to  the  same  terror  as  before. 
Dr.  Armazet  added  his  assurances  to  those  of  George, 
but  she  only  said,  "You  would  n't  tell  me  the  truth." 

"We'll  get  your  husband;  you'll  believe  your  hus- 
band," Dr.  Armazet  replied. 

[    258    J 


THE   WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

Graham  entered,  eagerness  and  hope  and  love  smiling 
on  his  face  and  shining  in  his  eyes.  He  fell  upon  his  knees 
beside  the  bed;  he  kissed  her  gently,  tenderly,  but  she 
did  not  respond  to  his  kisses. 

"Graham,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice  that  reached 
George  standing  by  the  door,  "you  are  all  trying  to  keep 
it  from  me." 

"What,  dearest?" 

"About  the  baby.   Is  the  baby  dead? " 

"No,  no!  Why,  a  moment  ago  he  was  crying,  a  great 
lusty  cry,  the  best  he's  given  yet.  Wait;  I'll  open  the 
door  and  if  he's  still  at  it  you  may  hear  him." 

Then  from  a  room  across  the  hall  sounded  a  tiny  wail; 
it  came  to  the  mother's  ears.  The  terror  passed  from 
her  eyes. 

"Will  he  hurt  himself  crying,  Graham?" 

"  Not  a  bit ;  he 's  hungry.  There;  he 's  getting  his  break- 
fast now;  he's  stopped." 

Contentment  settled  upon  her  face;  she  closed  her 
eyes  and  fell  asleep.  Graham  tiptoed  from  the  room, 
Dr.  Armazet  behind  him. 

"I  think  the  worst  is  over,"  the  surgeon  said.  "We 
can't  be  sure,  but  everything  seems  hopeful." 

George  sat  quietly  watching  Rosamond's  peaceful 
face.  The  time  when  he  had  tried  to  take  her  from  her 
husband  seemed  remote.  Purified  of  illicit  passion  he 
looked  at  Rosamond  now  with  tenderness  and  rever- 
ence. Courage,  devotion,  self-sacrifice,  fortitude  in 
anguish  —  was  she  not  a  mother  fora  child!  Though  he 
strove  to  bar  the  entrance,  a  devastating  comparison 
invaded  his  mind. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

DOROTHY   WISHES   HER   MOTHER   TO   BE   HAPPY 

rthe  middle  of  October,  George  brought  Dorothy 
and  the  baby  and  the  nurse  home  from  North  East 
Harbor.  Mrs.  Vasmer  remained  to  close  up  the  house  at 
her  leisure.  In  the  stateroom  on  the  night  train  the  baby 
cried  for  two  hours;  George  in  his  berth  outside  slept  un- 
disturbed, but  the  nurse  was  jaded  and  Dorothy  was 
cross  the  next  morning.  The  baby  screamed  at  being 
dressed,  at  having  his  bonnet  put  on,  at  being  wrapped 
in  his  shawl.  "Goodness,  he's  the  horrid  child!"  Doro- 
thy exclaimed.  "The  next  time  he  goes  traveling  it 
won't  be  with  me!" 

George  had  examined  him  with  careful  eyes.  The 
child  was  a  sound  and  active  baby,  but  irritable;  his 
fretfulness  aroused  George's  sympathy  and  arrayed  his 
feelings  against  Dorothy  when  she  was  irritable.  He 
could  not  give  expression  to  them,  but  while  Dorothy 
was  exclaiming  angrily  he  thought,  "Poor  little  fellow, 
you  would  n't  be  a  horrid  child  if  your  mother  were 
doing  her  part  by  you."  An  increase  of  tenderness 
towards  his  offspring  was  accompanied  by  a  hardening 
of  feeling  towards  his  wife. 

George  had  done  his  best  to  get  the  house  in  readiness 

for  his  wife's  return;  the  rugs  had  been  cleaned,  the 

floors  had  been  swept,  pictures  and  furniture  had  been 

unswathed,  dusted,  and  placed  in  position,  a  room  on 

[    260    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

the  third  floor  had  been  fitted  up  as  a  nursery.  And 
Dorothy  pleased  George  by  looking  round  and  saying, 
"Things  look  quite  well,  don't  they,  George?  Did  you 
do  all  this?  I  think  you  're  wonderful ! "  But  after  break- 
fast the  baby  cried  again  and  trunks  and  bags  had  to  be 
unpacked,  and  Dorothy  exclaimed  to  her  husband,  "Oh, 
what  a  nasty  little  house!  How  I  hate  to  come  home!" 

He  looked  so  crestfallen  that  she  added  relentingly, 
"It  was  well  enough  when  there  were  only  two  of  us. 
But  with  the  baby  and  the  baby's  nurse  —  there 's  no 
place  to  put  things,  and  he  cries  so,  and  it  gets  on  my 
nerves." 

He  patted  her  shoulder  and  said,  "Well,  dear,  we'll 
find  places  for  everything  pretty  soon  and  the  baby 
won't  always  be  crying,  and  you  won't  always  be  having 
nerves." 

"I  wish  you  would  n't  call  it  that,"  she  replied. 
"You're  very  unsympathetic,  George." 

He  protested  the  injustice  of  the  charge;  inwardly  he 
sighed  for  the  peaceful  precincts  of  the  club  and  for  his 
vanished  freedom.  But  at  once  he  was  ashamed  of  the 
longing;  after  all  it  was  not  yet  three  months  since  the 
baby  had  been  born  and  he  should  willingly  be  tolerant 
of  his  wife's  fretfulness. 

Nevertheless  he  welcomed  the  telephone  call  that 
summoned  him  to  a  patient's  bedside.  And  for  a  few 
days  his  happiest  hours  were  not  those  that  he  passed  at 
home.  There  was  trouble  with  servants,  new  ones  had 
to  be  hired,  the  baby's  diet  had  to  be  altered,  the  baby 
cried  and  Dorothy  complained.  And  all  the  time  George 
nursed  a  secret  bitterness;  it  might  have  been  so  differ- 
[  261  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

ent  had  his  wife  been  the  right  kind  of  mother;  the  kind 
of  mother  that  a  man  may  expect  the  woman  he  marries 
to  be. 

But  at  last  the  domestic  annoyances  were  smoothed 
out,  the  baby  began  to  thrive  on  the  new  diet  pre- 
scribed, and  Dorothy's  cheerfulness  returned.  She  was 
anxiously  waiting  to  regain  her  formerly  slim  figure  in 
order  to  buy  herself  some  new  clothes.  She  proposed  to 
discard  her  mourning  garments  and  have  a  gay  winter; 
she  felt  that  after  such  long  abstinence  from  social  pleas- 
ures she  deserved  it.  And  although  she  did  not  mention 
it  to  George,  she  had  an  idea  that  by  a  brilliant  reentry 
into  society,  and  with  the  assistance  of  many  new  and 
handsome  gowns,  she  could  recover  the  dominion  over 
him  that  she  was  uneasily  aware  at  times  of  having  lost. 
She  had  led  a  grubby  kind  of  life  too  long;  it  had  cost  her 
the  prestige  to  which  she  was  entitled. 

If  she  had  confided  her  thought  and  her  hope  to 
George,  he  might  have  been  touched.  But  he  did  not 
imagine  that  she  cared  particularly  any  longer  for  such 
homage  as  he  had  rendered  hi  the  past.  She  had  begun 
to  hold  him  off,  to  assume  a  new  formality;  it  was  be- 
cause his  manner  towards  her  had  wounded  her.  His 
gentleness  and  forbearance  were  too  studied;  she  would 
have  liked  better  to  be  scolded  and  then  to  be  caught 
into  his  arms.  But  perhaps  when  he  saw  her  in  her  new 
clothes,  at  balls  and  dinners,  courted  again  by  other 
men,  she  would  take  on  a  new  value  in  his  eyes.  And 
then  she  would  be  very  careful  to  see  that  he  never  again 
should  hold  her  lightly,  as  he  seemed  to  do  now. 

It  was  necessary  for  her  to  overcome  her  mother's 
[  262  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

scruples  and  inclinations.  Mrs.  Vasmer  wished  to 
remain  in  mourning  another  year. 

"But,  mother,"  Dorothy  said,  "how  can  I  go  out  if 
you  stay  in  deep  mourning?  And  besides  I  was  hoping 
that  you'd  do  some  entertaining  for  us." 

"It  seems  to  me,  Dorothy,  I  should  be  lacking  in 
respect  —  " 

"Now,  mother,  you  know  father  would  n't  want  you 
and  me  to  go  on  shutting  ourselves  off  from  the  world. 
People  can't  always  carry  their  sorrows  with  them,  and 
so  long  as  we  think  of  father  and  try  to  do  as  he  would 
have  us  do,  why  should  n't  we  get  what  pleasure  we  can 
out  of  life?" 

"  I  don't  feel  that  I  would  find  much  enjoyment  now 
in  entertaining,"  said  Mrs.  Vasmer.  "When  your  father 
was  here  to  help  me,  it  was  different." 

"George  and  I  would  help  you  and  take  as  much 
responsibility  as  possible  off  your  hands.  You  need  n't 
give  any  big  entertainments  —  just  dinners  and  theatre 
parties  and  things  of  that  kind." 

Mrs.  Vasmer  made  one  more  feeble  remonstrance.  "I 
don't  feel  as  if  I  should  have  the  heart  ever  to  wear 
colors  again." 

"It's  because  you've  worn  black  so  long  that  you  feel 
so.  Black  is  n't  good  for  people's  nerves  or  spirits.  I 
know  I  need  to  escape  from  it  —  and  so  do  you,  mother. 
Come  with  me  to-morrow,  and  we'll  go  shopping." 

A  long  habit  of  yielding  in  matters  on  which  Dorothy 

had  set  her  heart  had  deprived  Mrs.  Vasmer  of  the 

power  of  resistance.  Accompanying  her  daughter  to  the 

shops,  she  stood  sponsor  for  Dorothy's  numerous  ex- 

[    263    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

travagant  purchases  and  committed  several  on  her  own 
behalf,  with  a  sense  that  each  one  constituted  a  sacri- 
lege. 

"I  shall  never  have  the  strength  of  mind  to  change 
from  black  to  these,"  Mrs.  Vasmer  said;  and  Dorothy 
replied :  — 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will.  In  fact,  we  must  set  a  day  when 
we  shall  appear  together,  out  of  mourning.  How  about 
five  weeks  from  to-day?" 

Mrs.  Vasmer  thought  that  was  too  soon,  but  Dorothy 
pointed  out  that  once  you  had  made  up  your  mind  to  do 
a  thing,  it  was  wise  to  do  it  with  as  little  delay  as  possible. 
And  on  the  day  that  she  had  named  Dorothy  in  her  new 
and  becoming  brown  suit  and  hat  with  blue  feather 
walked  to  her  mother's  house  and  there,  after  much  en- 
treaty and  argument,  induced  Mrs.  Vasmer  to  discard 
her  widow's  weeds  and  put  on  her  new  gray  suit  and 
gray  hat.  Then  she  summoned  her  mother's  victoria 
and  compelled  her  to  drive  about  the  Back  Bay  and 
make  calls. 

"Now  that  the  ice  has  been  broken,  it  won't  be  hard 
for  you,"  Dorothy  said.  "And,  of  course,  now  you  can't 
return  to  black  —  which  is  a  comfort.  You  look  twice 
as  well  and  three  times  as  young,  now  that  you  're  out  of 
mourning." 

She  kissed  her  mother  as  if  in  confirmation  of  the 
compliment. 

Mrs.  Vasmer  was  herself  not  insensible  to  an  improve- 
ment of  spirits.  Her  first  consciousness  of  daring  and 
guilt  having  passed,  she  acknowledged  to  herself  an 
interest  and  pleasure  in  her  appearance.  The  black  in 
[  264  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

which  she  had  been  draped  and  shrouded  and  immured 
had  subdued  and  imprisoned  her  spirits;  now,  free  once 
more,  they  shyly  fluttered  their  wings.  After  Dorothy 
had  gone,  she  stood  before  the  pier-glass  hi  her  room, 
turning  about  and  admiring  the  flow  and  fall  of  her 
dress,  the  poise  of  her  hat;  it  was  the  first  time  since  her 
husband's  death  that  she  had  done  this  with  a  sense  of 
pleasure.  Although  she  had  unsuccessfully  fought  a 
tendency  to  stoutness,  her  face  retained  still  a  youth- 
ful color  if  not  a  youthful  freshness.  Yes,  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  live  in  the  world  again  —  and  perhaps  people 
would  not  always  remember  that  she  was  a  grand- 
mother. 

She  was  a  simple-minded  woman  and  old-fashioned  in 
her  piety;  she  knelt  beside  her  bed  and  besought  her 
husband's  spirit  to  believe  that  he  was  not  forgotten. 
And  then  she  prayed  for  grace  and  resignation  with 
which  to  bear  the  fading  of  her  bloom,  for  strength  of 
mind  to  raise  her  above  follies  and  frivolities  unbecom- 
ing to  her  age,  and  for  unselfishness  and  cheerfulness  so 
that  she  might  not  be  a  killjoy  to  a  younger  generation. 

Meanwhile  Dorothy  had  walked  home,  in  her  brown 
suit  and  hat  with  a  blue  feather,  very  well  pleased  with 
her  mother  for  exhibiting  such  docility.  "  She  '11  be  much 
happier,"  Dorothy  assured  herself,  "much  happier  in 
every  way."  And  she  felt  entitled  to  considerable  credit 
for  having  brought  her  mother  to  this  happier  outlook 
upon  life. 

She  had  been  at  home  but  a  few  minutes  when  Sidney 
Hanford  called,  and  she  went  down  rather  excited  and 
curious  to  see  what  impression  she  would  make  on  him 
[  265  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

in  her  new  clothes.  It  was  very  gratifying;  she  was 
aware  of  the  instant  pleasure  on  his  face. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "I  hope  you'll  never  wear  black 
again." 

"One  does  n't  do  it  from  preference,"  she  answered. 

"Yes,  and  so  all  the  more  reason  for  my  hope!  It 
always  hurt  me  to  see  you  in  black.  I  remembered  how 
you  looked  the  first  time  I  saw  you  on  the  steamer,  and 
I  felt  that  you  ought  always  to  look  bright  and  gay,  as 
you  did  then;  there  ought  never  to  be  anything  about 
you  to  suggest  sorrow  or  unhappiness." 

"But  when  we  can't  escape  sorrow  and  unhappi- 
ness— " 

"That's  just  it;  I  want  you  to  escape  them;  I  can't 
bear  to  think  that  you  don't,  and  wearing  black  is  a  pro- 
clamation of  sorrow.  But  now  I  can  imagine  you  as 
never  anything  but  happy." 

"  Then  what  you  imagine  about  me  may  be  more  im- 
portant to  you  than  what  I  really  am?" 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  "I  can  only  answer  that  by 
saying  that  you  really  must  be  all  that  I  imagine 
you." 

She  could  not  be  unaware  of  the  deepened  feeling  in 
his  voice,  so  suddenly,  even  involuntarily,  expressed;  she 
was  not  unaware  of  a  responsive  kindling  of  emotion 
beneath  the  surface;  she  feared  that  she  might  betray  it, 
she  hoped  that  he  would  divine  it. 

In  the  moment  of  silence  that  followed  she  was  sure 

that  he  had  read  her  thoughts,  vibrated  to  her  emotion. 

She  was  especially  sure  of  it  because  of  late  in  the  work 

that  he  had  been  reading  to  her  passages  had  revealed  an 

[    266    J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

almost  uncanny  understanding  of  feminine  states  of 
mind;  sometimes  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  seeing 
herself  interpreted.  The  talk  between  them  became  con- 
strained; Hanford  soon  took  his  leave.  After  he  had  gone 
Dorothy  felt  agitated  and  unhappy.  She  could  not 
account  for  her  feelings  to  herself;  she  thought  that  he 
with  his  insight  could  elucidate  them  to  her.  But  of 
course  he  would  never  have  the  opportunity. 

When  George  came  in,  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  his 
•wife's  dress;  he  made  no  comment  on  it.  He  kissed  her 
as  he  passed  on  his  way  to  the  window-seat,  where  he 
stretched  himself  full  length.  She  put  down  the  book  on 
which  she  had  been  trying  to  fix  her  attention. 

"Tired,  George?" 

"Yes,  rather." 

"I  thought  you  must  be  —  not  to  say  anything  about 
the  way  I  look ! " 

He  turned  his  head.  "Oh,  yes.  A  new  dress;  it 's  very 
pretty  —  very  becoming.  So  you're  coming  out  of 
mourning?" 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  relations  which  had  existed 
between  them  since  her  return  to  Boston  that  he  should 
have  been  ignorant  of  her  intention. 

"Yes.  I  hope  you're  glad.  It's  strange  you  didn't 
notice." 

"I  must  have  been  too  preoccupied.  To  tell  the  truth, 
in  the  mood  I  'm  in,  your  black  would  be  more  appropri- 
ate." 

"What  has  happened?" 

"Oh,  an  operation  failed.  Nobody's  fault  —  but  it 
was  useless.  A  boy  of  fifteen  —  only  child;  a  tumor  of 
[  267  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

the  brain  suddenly  developed.  We  knew  it  was  almost 
hopeless.  I  had  to  see  the  mother  afterwards." 

"  Poor  woman ! "  said  Dorothy. 

"A  tragedy  like  that  haunts  me  now  more  than  it  used 
to.  I  can't  help  thinking  always,  'What  if  it  happened 
to  us!'  Seeing  so  much  pain  and  grief  and  suffering  I 
sometimes  wonder  if  any  one  escapes." 

"Don't  have  such  thoughts;  don't  put  them  into  my 
head!  Of  course  our  little  boy  is  going  to  be  all  right, 
always." 

"Yes,  of  course  he  is.  There's  no  reason  to  fear  that  it 
will  be  otherwise." 

But  all  that  evening  George  remained  under  a  cloud 
of  depression.  He  admitted  that  he  could  not  put  from 
him  thoughts  of  the  grief-crazed  mother,  the  stricken 
father  who  tried  vainly  to  support  and  comfort  her.  At 
dinner  he  sat  silent;  afterwards  he  lay  again  on  the 
window-seat  and  rested  with  closed  eyes  until  at  last  he 
roused  himself  and  descended  to  his  study. 

Dorothy  had  tried  to  interest  him  in  her  plans  for  a 
gay  winter,  but  the  attention  that  he  gave  her  was  so 
obviously  perfunctory  that  she  soon  ceased,  and  deter- 
mined rather  sullenly  to  be  just  as  silent  as  he  was.  And 
when  he  left  her  and  went  downstairs  she  felt  angry. 
Men  who  were  good  husbands  did  not  bring  home  their 
professional  troubles  and  worries  and  sorrows  and  con- 
vert an  atmosphere  of  cheerfulness  into  one  of  gloom. 
Of  course  doctors  saw  a  lot  of  suffering,  but  all  the  more 
reason  for  their  not  dwelling  on  it  afterwards.  And,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  all  the  good  doctors  and  surgeons  that 
she  knew  were  an  unusually  jolly  set  of  men.  Even  if 
[  268  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

George  could  n't  get  away  from  his  share  in  a  tragic  ex- 
perience, there  was  absolutely  no  excuse  for  his  scaring 
her  and  harrowing  her  up  with  premonitions  and  pre- 
sentiments about  the  baby.  He  simply  could  n't  miss 
a  chance  to  try  to  make  her  feel  that  she  had  not  been 
a  good  mother  to  her  child. 

She  felt  piqued  because  he  had  been  so  indifferent  to 
the  epoch-making  change  in  her  dress,  so  casual  in  his 
comment  on  her  appearance,  so  unresponsive  to  her 
statement  of  plans  and  expectations  for  the  winter.  His 
attitude  simply  meant  that  she  and  her  life  had  become 
of  secondary  importance  to  him.  Of  less  importance, 
indeed,  than  to  Sidney  Hanford,  who  had  been  actually 
thrilled  at  seeing  her  again  in  colors,  who  had  become 
radiant  in  the  thought  of  her  once  more  gay  and  happy 
as  a  young  girl  is  happy. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

PHASES  OF  CONTENTMENT 

SLOWLY  Rosamond  recovered  her  strength;  slowly 
the  tiny  infant  gained  in  weight  and  vigor.  Al- 
though the  doctor  would  not  express  any  sanguine  hope 
and  said  that  not  until  the  first  of  the  year  could  the 
baby's  health  be  regarded  as  assured,  with  each  week 
that  passed  his  manner  took  on  confidence  and  gave  en- 
couragement. And  when  at  last  Rosamond  herself  was 
able  to  share  the  nurse's  duties,  to  feed  and  bathe  and 
dress  the  little  thing,  she  felt  that  death  could  not  now 
rob  her  of  her  child,  such  watchful  care  she  would  give 
him,  such  devotion  —  and  so  scrupulously  would  she 
abstain  from  indulgence  in  forbidden  maternal  pleas- 
ures. Although  with  her  heart  and  soul  and  lips  and 
fingers  she  longed  to  caress  the  soft  little  body,  she  never 
cuddled  the  child  in  her  arms,  she  never  kissed  him,  she 
never  laughed  over  him  or  talked  to  him  or  played  with 
him;  quietly,  silently,  in  a  manner  as  business-like  as  it 
was  gentle,  she  did  for  him  what  was  required  and  then 
left  him  to  himself.  The  nurse  commented  admiringly 
on  her  self-control.  "Oh,"  said  Rosamond,  "but  don't 
I  comfort  myself  every  day  with  thinking  how  some 
tune  I  shall  hug  him  and  hug  him  in  my  arms!" 

To  Graham's  campaign  for  election  to  the  legislature 
she  did  not  give  close  interest;  she  was  too  preoccupied 
with  the  baby;  all  her  power  of  concentration  had  been 
[    270    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

narrowed  down  to  him.  Sometimes  Graham  would  talk 
to  her  about  the  issues  depending  on  the  election  or 
about  the  character  of  the  campaign  being  waged  by  his 
opponent;  and  always,  after  a  little  while,  Rosamond 
would  have  to  confess  that  she  had  not  been  listening 
and  that  there  seemed  to  be  something  the  matter  with 
her  brain  because  she  could  never  be  interested  in  things 
as  formerly.  Graham  assured  her  that  there  was  nothing 
the  matter  with  it  and  that  after  the  long  period  of  ner- 
vous strain  and  anxiety  was  over  she  would  find  herself 
once  more  alert  to  outside  affairs.  He  himself  carried 
anxiety  less  lightly  than  his  wife.  His  heart  was  not 
in  electioneering;  after  two  speeches  he  refused  to 
continue  on  the  stump;  he  left  his  political  fate  to 
his  friends  and  to  public  sentiment.  Dread  lest  the 
baby  should  die  and  terror  of  what  might  then  befall 
Rosamond  oppressed  him  at  all  times.  He  tried  to  ar- 
range his  life  so  that  he  should  be  always  within  tele- 
phone call  —  and  when  he  was  at  his  office  or  away 
from  home  he  never  heard  the  telephone  bell  ring  with- 
out a  sinking  at  the  heart,  a  weakening  of  the  knees. 
The  doctor  had  told  him  that  the  baby  might  seem  per- 
fectly well  one  minute  and  collapse  the  next;  Graham 
wondered  at  Rosamond's  increasing  serenity  and  was 
almost  frightened  by  it,  fearing  the  shattering  effect 
should  disaster  come. 

In  the  election  he  was  victorious  by  a  vote  of  about 
two  to  one;  his  popularity  in  the  town  and  the  surround- 
ing country  had  made  public  appearances  unnecessary 
to  his  success. 

Dorothy  read  the  newspaper  announcement  of  the 
[  271  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

vote  and  telephoned  her  congratulations  to  Rosamond. 
Since  her  return  from  North  East  Harbor  she  had  visited 
Rosamond  once,  and  now  asked  when  she  might  come 
again.  Rosamond  said,  "Any  day;  come  out  for  lunch- 
eon any  day."  Then  Dorothy,  reckoning  up  her  engage- 
ments, announced  that  she  could  not  come  for  two 
weeks.  When  the  day  arrived,  she  had  found  it  neces- 
sary to  sacrifice  the  acceptance  of  an  attractive  luncheon 
invitation,  but  she  felt  sorry  for  Rosamond,  isolated  on 
her  hilltop  and  unable  to  go  anywhere,  and  kept  her 
engagement  with  her  as  a  duty  rather  than  as  a  pleasure. 

At  any  rate,  Rosamond  appreciated  her  new  clothes; 
it  was  a  pleasure  to  have  any  one  so  intelligently  appre- 
ciative, so  mildly  envious.  For  Rosamond  declared  that 
she  had  n't  been  able  to  get  anything  new  for  the  au- 
tumn and  did  n't  know  when  she  could  get  anything 
new  for  the  winter;  she  might  have  to  wear  her  last 
year's  things  right  through  until  spring.  After  all,  it 
did  n't  matter  much  to  one  living  out  in  the  country, 
though  sometimes  one  got  rather  tired  of  one's  self. 

"Yes,  that's  the  way  I  felt,  wearing  black,"  said 
Dorothy.  "It  got  to  be  a  perfect  tyranny  after  a  time. 
But  I  don't  see  what's  to  prevent  you  from  getting  new 
clothes,  Rosamond.  You  can  surely  come  into  town 
whenever  you  want  to;  it  is  n't  as  if  you  were  nursing 
the  baby." 

"I  should  n't  dare  to  be  away  from  him;  I'm  never 
away  from  the  house  for  longer  than  an  hour." 

"But  with  a  trained  nurse  here  all  the  time  if  any- 
thing should  happen  — " 

"It  does  n't  make  any  difference;  I  should  n't  dare  to 
[  272  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

go  away;  I  shouldn't  be  happy.  In  my  place  you'd 
understand." 

"No,  I'm  sure  I  should  n't.  I  could  n't  endure  being 
so  tied  down  —  all  those  months  beforehand,  and  now 
these  months  afterwards;  I  should  go  mad." 

"Not  if  you  felt  that  staying  at  home  might  make  the 
difference  between  life  and  death." 

"Yes,  but  how  can  you  feel  that,  Rosamond?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,  but  I  do  feel  it.  I  feel  that  the  more 
I  do  for  the  baby  now,  the  better  his  chance.  Already 
it  seems  to  me  he  knows  me  and  likes  to  have  me  handle 
him.  Perhaps  it 's  only  my  imagination,  but  I  think  he 
likes  me  better  than  the  nurse.  And  then  it 's  the  mental 
feeling  —  that  if  anything  should  happen  and  I  were 
here  I  could  fight  for  him,  whereas  if  anything  should 
happen,  with  me  away,  I  could  n't.  So  I  'm  contented  to 
sit  at  home  these  days." 

Sitting  now  in  front  of  the  living-room  fire  and  plying 
her  knitting-needles  in  the  manufacture  of  a  filmy  baby 
garment,  Rosamond  looked,  indeed,  as  if  she  cherished 
no  grudge  against  her  fate.  The  color  of  returning 
health  was  in  her  cheeks,  in  her  hazel  eyes  was  the  calm- 
ness of  faith  and  the  brightness  of  hope,  her  lips  wore 
both  a  new  sweetness  and  a  new  resoluteness.  Dorothy 
looking  at  her  wondered  jealously  what  it  was  that  Rosa- 
mond had  gained  and  she  had  missed  in  marriage  and  in 
child-bearing. 

The  question  in  her  mind  prompted  her  to  ask  wist- 
fully,  - 

"Rosamond,  don't  you  ever  sometimes  wish  you  were 
unmarried  —  just  a  girl  again?  I  do.  Not,  of  course, 
[  273  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

because  George  is  n't  the  best  kind  of  a  husband,  but 
just  because  —  well,  don't  you  ever  have  the  feeling, 
Rosamond?" 

"I  used  to;  I  suppose  every  one  has  it  at  times.  But 
I  have  n't  had  it  since  I  first  knew  the  baby  was  com- 
ing." 

"That  does  n't  seem  to  have  made  me  any  less  sub- 
ject to  it,"  confessed  Dorothy.  "There  was  something 
that  it  seems  to  me  I  had  every  minute  before  I  was 
married,  and  that  I  've  never  had  since,  —  something 
that  was  like  the  breath  of  life  to  me,  —  and  that  was 
excitement,  —  excitement  over  the  mystery  of  the 
future,  excitement  in  looking  forward  to  every  trifling 
thing,  excitement  in  wondering  whether  the  men  I  was 
meeting  and  the  men  I  was  seeing  would  really  like  me, 
excitement  in  wondering  which  of  them  all  would  finally 
prove  to  be  the  one!  Don't  you  know  what  I  mean, 
Rosamond?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  And  I  think  every  girl  must  in  a  way 
regret  the  passing  of  that  excitement  —  that  mystery." 

"Regret  it!  Oh,  Rosamond,  sometimes  it  seems  to  me 
almost  as  if  my  life  were  over.  It  is  all  so  settled,  so 
stupidly,  tiresomely  settled!  It  used  to  be  so  innocent  to 
want  men  to  like  me,  and  to  wonder  how  much  they 
might  —  and  now  it  is  n't  innocent  any  more,  and  yet 
I  want  it  just  the  same!  A  married  woman  can't  have 
excitements  and  thrills  and  be  a  good  married  woman, 
can  she,  Rosamond?" 

"It's  wiser  certainly  for  her  not  to  have  them.'* 

"And  yet  it's  nature,  it's  instinct!" 

"  Sometimes  we  have  to  fight  against  nature  and  in- 
[  274  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

stinct.  I  suppose  the  real  value  and  reward  of  life  is  in 
promoting  the  life  and  usefulness  of  others.  So  why 
should  we  feel  sad  because  our  girlhood  days,  with  all 
their  shallow  excitements  and  silly  thrills,  are  over?  I 
think  that  women  more  than  men  need  to  learn  resigna- 
tion; it's  more  important  to  their  usefulness.  'Whoso 
seeketh  his  life'  and  so  on;  it's  even  truer  if  you  change 
'his' to 'her.'" 

"I  can't  be  a  passive  sort  of  person,"  said  Dorothy. 
"  I  'm  not  ready  to  retire  from  the  world  and  live  just  in 
and  for  my  child  and  all  that  kind  of  thing." 

"Well,"  said  Rosamond,  "I  feel  that  it's  a  perfectly 
good  career  to  be  a  mother.  I  don't  think  it 's  necessary 
for  you  to  withdraw  from  the  world;  it  is,  temporarily, 
for  me.  But  I  think  when  we  go  into  it,  we  must  have  a 
different  point  of  view  from  the  old  one.  We  ought  to 
accumulate  observation  and  experience  for  the  benefit  of 
our  children  instead  of  sensations  for  ourselves.  We 
should  n't  insist  on  always  viewing  ourselves  as  heroines 
of  romance  —  and  we  should  n't  get  discontented  if 
others  don't  view  us  as  such." 

"I  wonder  if  you're  one  hah*  as  philosophic  as  you 
sound,"  said  Dorothy.  "I  must  say,  I  exclaim  with 
Keats,  'Oh,  for  a  life  of  sensations  rather  than  of 
thoughts!'" 

"There's  not  much  harm  in  having  sensations  so 
long  as  you  don't  make  them,"  replied  Rosamond. 
"Now  I  must  see  to  the  baby's  feeding;  I'll  soon  be 
back." 

Dorothy  asked  if  she  might  not  come,  too;  she  wanted 
to  see  the  baby. 

[    275    J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"I'm  sorry,  but  he  is  n't  allowed  to  see  any  one  yet. 
We  still  have  to  be  very  careful  with  him." 

Dorothy  pondered  on  Rosamond's  point  of  view,  won- 
dered if  she  really  was  as  happy  as  her  words  and  her 
face  indicated,  remembered  that  in  the  old  days  she  had 
been  as  gay  and  fly-away  as  any  one.  She  decided  that 
probably  Graham's  interesting  life  and  prospects  in- 
spired much  of  Rosamond's  contentment,  and  during 
luncheon  she  tried  to  ascertain  just  how  far  these  factors 
affected  her  point  of  view. 

"Here  I  am  and  I've  not  mentioned  Graham's  elec- 
tion," she  said.  "Were  n't  you  excited,  Rosamond,  and 
are  n't  you  glad  he  won?" 

"I  don't  think  either  of  us  was  much  excited,"  Rosa- 
mond answered.  "  It  was  n't  a  very  exalted  office,  you 
know." 

"Still  it's  a  beginning  in  politics,  and  so  few  good  men 
go  in  for  politics!  Probably  you'll  be  living  in  Wash- 
ington some  day.  What  fun  it  would  be  to  have  a  bril- 
liant social  and  political  career!  I'm  sure  you  and 
Graham  will  have  it,  Rosamond." 

"We're  not  looking  ahead  to  anything  of  the  kind. 
My  one  idea  is  to  stay  right  here  and  see  the  little  boy 
get  strong  and  grow  healthy  — and  I  hope,  of  course,  I 
shall  have  other  children." 

"Goodness,  I  don't  want  to  think  of  having  others 
now,"  said  Dorothy.  "  Some  time,  perhaps,  but  I  want 
a  long  rest  and  lots  of  fun." 

"Well,"  said  Rosamond,  "I  can  understand  that,  too, 
and  I  don't  doubt  that  you  '11  have  a  good  time  and  be  as 
much  a  belle  as  you  ever  were." 
I    276    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"I  feel  almost  as  nervous  as  when  I  was  a  debutante. 
But  I  have  some  lovely  new  dresses,  Rosamond.  I  wish 
you  could  come  into  town ;  I  should  love  to  show  them 
to  you." 

"I  wish  I  could;  I  should  love  to  see  them.  Tell  me 
about  them." 

And  Rosamond  listened,  quite  eagerly;  Dorothy 
observed  the  wistfulness  of  her  gaze,  the  interest  of  her 
questions. 

"She  loves  pretty  things  as  much  as  she  ever  did," 
Dorothy  thought.  "She  never  before  wore  last  year's 
dresses  and  looked  a  little  dowdy ;  she  does  n't  like  that. 
And  she  likes  a  good  time  as  much  as  she  ever  did.  It's 
mean,  I  know,  but  I  can't  help  feeling  glad  that  I  can 
make  her  feel  a  little  discontented.  I  hate  to  think  that 
life  is  so  much  happier  and  more  satisfactory  for  other 
people  than  for  me." 

So  she  talked  on  vivaciously  of  her  new  clothes  and 
the  new  styles,  of  the  invitations  that  she  had  received, 
of  the  promise  for  a  gay  winter,  of  the  dinners  that  her 
mother  was  nominally  and  she  really  to  give,  of  the  new 
game,  bridge  whist,  that  every  one  was  learning  and 
going  mad  over;  and  finally,  when  she  rose  to  take  her 
departure  Rosamond  said,  — 

"It  is  good  to  hear  about  the  world  again.  You  don't 
know  what  a  splendid  time  you  've  given  me,  Dorothy. 
Do  come  again  soon." 

She  kissed  her  and  Dorothy  felt  instantly  ashamed  of 
the   moment's   satisfaction   in   troubling   Rosamond's 
contentment,  instantly  pleased  at  having  brought  a  ray 
of  color  into  the  poor  girl's  dull  life. 
[    277    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"I  shall  think  of  you  sitting  at  your  dinner  table  to- 
night and  wearing  —  which  one?  The  lavender  and 
rose?"  said  Rosamond. 

"No,  the  yellow  one  to-night,"  replied  Dorothy, 
laughing. 

She  wondered  how  Sidney  Hanford  would  like  her  in 
that  new  yellow  gown;  she  rather  hoped  she  might  dazzle 
him.  He  had  telephoned  that  morning  to  ask  if  he  might 
come  in  to  dinner  and  afterwards  read  her  something  he 
had  written. 

She  had  not  said  anything  to  Rosamond  about 
Sidney  Hanford.  Well,  there  was  nothing  to  say. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

A  NECESSARY   DEPARTURE  AND  AN  UNNECESSARY 
FAREWELL 

SIDNEY  HANFORD  passed  Christmas  with  his 
brother  in  New  Hampshire.  He  reluctantly  de- 
clined an  invitation  from  Mrs.  Vasmer  —  he  knew 
whom  to  thank  for  it  —  to  dine  on  that  evening  at  her 
house.  The  claims  of  fraternal  duty  and  avuncular 
privilege  withheld  him  from  gratifying  his  own  inclina- 
tion —  which  was  to  see  Dorothy  Brandon  wherever 
and  whenever  opportunity  offered.  Christmas  had  al- 
ways been  a  family  day,  and  he  recognized  his  brother 
William  as  now  the  head  of  the  family;  it  was  his  duty 
on  this  day  of  the  year  to  pay  William  and  his  wife  the 
respect  due  to  the  head.  Moreover,  it  was  his  privilege 
to  observe  his  nephew,  now  old  enough  to  be  transported 
with  delight  over  Christmas  presents  and  Christmas 
food.  Sidney  had  an  affection  for  the  little  boy  and  had 
made  a  careful  selection  of  mechanical  toys  for  him;  he 
had  especially  pinned  his  hopes  on  a  traveling  dump- 
cart  which  conveyed  a  load  of  sand  up  an  inclined  track 
and  discharged  it  from  the  top  of  a  derrick — scuttling 
down  again  to  reload  the  same  sand  and  again  hurl  it 
from  the  height. 

He  passed  a  very  domestic  Christmas  —  playing  on 

the  floor  with  his  enthralled  nephew  most  of  the  day  and 

causing  his  sister-in-law  to  declare  that  he  was  too  nice 

a  person  to  go  much  longer  unmarried.   She  endeavored 

[    279    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

to  elicit  from  him  information  about  the  girls  he  knew 
in  Boston,  and  professed  skepticism  when  he  stated 
that  he  did  n't  know  any. 

"Your  friend  that  you  visited  at  North  East  — 
has  n't  she  put  you  in  the  way  of  making  other  acquaint- 
ances?" asked  Elizabeth. 

"She's  been  in  mourning  until  recently,"  Sidney  an- 
swered. "Oh,  I  have  met  a  few  people  at  her  house,  and 
probably  I  shall  meet  others.  But  I  'm  too  busy  with  my 
work  to  be  interested  in  girls  —  except  as  subjects." 

Elizabeth  said  she  always  distrusted  a  man  who  talked 
like  that. 

She  and  her  husband  accompanied  Sidney  on  his 
return  to  Boston.  Every  winter  they  went  to  Boston  for 
a  week  of  revelry ;  they  took  a  room  at  the  Parker  House, 
and  Elizabeth  shopped  and  William  looked  up  various 
Dartmouth  friends ;  they  dined  at  different  places  every 
night  and  went  to  a  theater  every  evening.  On  this  oc- 
casion Sidney  undertook  for  one  evening  to  play  the 
host;  dinner  at  the  Touraine,  a  box  at  the  theater,  and 
then  supper  at  the  Touraine  represented  the  scope  of  his 
entertainment,  to  which  he  invited  George  and  Dorothy 
Brandon.  Dorothy  came  without  her  husband;  George 
had  been  called  off  on  a  case — "as  usual,"  Dorothy  said. 

Sidney  felt  that  it  was  one  of  the  pleasantest  evenings 
of  his  life.  He  enjoyed  the  sensation  of  providing  pleas- 
ure for  William  and  Elizabeth  and  Dorothy  —  espe- 
cially Dorothy.  It  enlivened  his  spirits  to  observe  how 
well  William  and  Elizabeth  got  on  with  Dorothy,  how 
charmed  Dorothy  apparently  was  with  William  and 
Elizabeth.  He  thought  that  Elizabeth  looked  really 
[  280  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

very  pretty  in  her  pink  dress,  with  her  swansdown  cloak 
thrown  back,  and  her  face  animated  and  excited;  and  he 
was  sure  that  Dorothy,  gay  and  lively,  with  her  musical 
laugh  and  her  shining  eyes,  was  quite  the  loveliest  crea- 
ture in  the  world.  She  was  merry  and  kind  and  fascinat- 
ing, and  it  was  no  wonder  that  William  found  her  so 
enchanting;  he  could  hardly  take  his  eyes  off  her  during 
dinner,  and  in  the  box  between  the  acts  she  and  he  talked 
together  earnestly,  confidentially.  Sidney  was  proud  of 
the  success  of  his  little  party,  sorry  as  a  young  debu- 
tante is  sorry  when  the  pleasant  evening  came  to  an  end; 
to  close  the  carriage  door  upon  the  radiant  Dorothy 
saddened  his  spirits. 

It  did  not  cause  him  at  all  the  same  pang  to  hear  the 
radiant  Elizabeth's  "Good-night." 

William  and  Elizabeth  remained  in  Boston  only  two 
more  days;  on  the  last  night  of  their  stay  Sidney  came 
to  dine  with  them.  After  dinner  Elizabeth  said,  "I'm 
going  up  to  my  room;  I  know  that  you  and  Will  want  to 
have  a  talk,  Sidney." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Sidney  protested;  it  struck  him 
momentarily  as  odd  that  William  did  not  support  his 
protest.  He  supposed  there  was  some  business  matter  to 
be  discussed,  and  after  Elizabeth  had  gone  waited  for 
his  brother  to  speak. 

William  seemed  in  no  haste  to  come  to  the  point.  He 
presented  Sidney  with  a  very  admirable  cigar  and  pre- 
vailed on  him  to  warm  his  already  comfortable  person 
with  a  pony  of  brandy.  Then  William  remarked,  — 

"Elizabeth  and  I  both  think  Mrs.  Brandon  is  an 
uncommonly  attractive  woman." 
I    281    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"Yes,"  Sidney  agreed.  "She  is." 

"She's  been  married  how  long?" 

"A  little  over  a  year." 

"Visiting  her  at  North  East  last  summer  you  came  to 
know  her  pretty  well,  I  suppose.  You  see  a  good  deal  of 
her  now?" 

"I  see  her  occasionally." 

"About  how  often?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Two  or  three  times  a  week,  perhaps?  Whenever  you 
feel  the  need  of  society,  of  companionship,  you  're  likely 
to  go  to  her?  " 

"Confound  it,  Will,  you're  not  examining  witnesses. 
Your  questions  are  irritating.  What  are  you  driving 
at?" 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  irritating,  Sid.  But  it  has  oc- 
curred to  me  that  perhaps  without  knowing  it  you  are 
getting  too  fond  of  that  attractive  lady." 

Sidney  flushed.  "Mrs.  Brandon  is  one  of  the  best 
friends  I  have,  and  in  that  way  I  'm  fond  of  her.  I  go  to 
her  for  criticism  and  help  in  my  work.  That  means  we 
have  come  to  know  each  other  pretty  well." 

"It  means  trouble,"  said  William.  "There's  only  one 
woman  to  whom  a  man  is  justified  in  carrying  his  prob- 
lems and  opening  up  his  thoughts,  and  that's  his  wife 
—  or  the  woman  that  he  hopes  to  make  his  wife.  If  he 
chooses  any  other  woman  for  such  a  purpose  and  she 
responds  at  all,  he  will  get  too  much  interested  in  her  or 
she  in  him,  or  each  in  the  other.  Now,  Sid,  that's  hap- 
pened between  you  and  Mrs.  Brandon." 

"I  don't  think  of  her  in  any  improper  way.  I  like  her, 
[  282  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

I  admire  her  —  but  it 's  perfectly  absurd  for  you  to  draw 
any  such  inference!" 

"Sid,  you're  in  love  with  that  woman,  and  all  that 
would  be  needed  to  make  you  realize  it  would  be  to  find 
that  she  was  in  love  with  you." 

"Then  I  am  certainly  protected  from  enlightenment." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  think  you  —  and  she  —  are  in 
grave  danger  of  it.  Elizabeth  thinks  so,  too." 

"What  nonsense!" 

"  My  dear  Sid,  any  one  could  have  seen  that  at  dinner 
the  other  night  she  looked  at  you  with  the  eyes  of  more 
than  ordinary  friendship  —  and  you  were  unconscious 
of  how  you  looked  at  her.  It  was  apparent  enough  on 
both  sides.  Elizabeth  spoke  of  it  to  me  afterwards;  I  had 
carefully  not  suggested  it  to  her.  But  that  was  n't  all. 
At  the  theater  Mrs.  Brandon  talked  to  me  about  you  — 
said  you  were  the  most  interesting  and  attractive  man 
she  knew,  told  me  what  confidence  she  had  in  your  fu- 
ture, how  fortunate  she  thought  herself  in  seeing  so  much 
of  you  when  you  were,  so  to  speak,  on  the  threshold  — 

"You  don't  suppose  she  would  talk  like  that  if  she  had 
any  feeling  of  the  kind  you  suspect!" 

"  I  don't  think  she 's  quite  aware  of  the  consequence  of 
her  interest.  But  it  will  grow  if  you  let  it,  and  yours  will 
grow  if  you  let  it.  In  the  case  of  two  persons  who  are 
so  sympathetic  and  so  attracted  to  each  other,  that  is 
inevitable  —  if  they  continue  to  see  each  other." 

Sidney  was  silent  a  moment.  "Does  Elizabeth  really 
think  she  cares  about  me?"  he  asked. 

"The  first  thing  that  Elizabeth  said  to  me  after  your 
theater  party  was,  'She's  hi  love  with  him.'" 
[    283    J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Out  of  their  stormy  incredulity  a  flash  of  pleased  sur- 
prise darted  from  Sidney's  eyes. 

"Elizabeth  is  not  always  imagining  flirtations  and 
romances,"  continued  William.  "She's  extremely  level- 
headed and  would  n't  ever  be  suspicious  of  any  ordinary 
prosaic  friendship.  But  you  see,  Sid,  your  eyes  and 
Mrs.  Brandon's  are  too  expressive;  an  observant  person 
could  n't  fail  to  read  them." 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  this  if  you  think  it's  danger- 
ous?" 

"Because  it  can't  have  gone  so  far  that  you  will  refuse 
to  heed  the  warning.  If  you  stay  on  in  Boston  you  will 
continue  to  see  her,  —  probably  more  and  more  often,  — 
and  the  effect  will  be  to  make  both  you  and  her  discon- 
tented and  unhappy;  you  will  unsettle  her  life,  and  she 
yours.  It  would  be  only  a  question  of  time  before  you 
came  between  her  and  her  husband.  It 's  your  duty  to 
go  away." 

"If  she's  unhappy  at  home  and  gets  some  pleasure 
from  her  friendship  with  me  — " 

"Poppycock!"  said  William.  "Sentimental  rubbish. 
In  the  first  place,  have  you  any  reason  to  believe  that 
her  husband  is  unkind  or  abusive?" 

"No,  but  rather  inattentive  — " 

"Even  after  marriage  men  have  their  work  to  do. 
Wives  must  not  be  exacting." 

"I  have  no  reason  to  think  she's  unhappy  with  her 
husband,"  said  Sidney,  after  a  pause.  "  So  I  have  no  rea- 
son to  think  it's  incumbent  on  me  to  remove  myself." 

"Elizabeth  thinks  it  is,"  replied  William.  "She  sees 
from  the  woman's  point  of  view.  First  you  argue  that 
[  284  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

you  should  n't  go  if  she's  unhappy;  now  you  argue  that 
you  should  n't  go  unless  she's  unhappy." 

Sidney  was  silent. 

"I  realize  that  I'm  urging  you  to  make  a  sacrifice," 
William  continued.  "I'm  urging  you  to  put  forth  your 
strength  when  every  inclination  is  towards  the  course  of 
weakness.  But  there 's  nothing  to  be  gained  by  lingering 
on  here.  Sidney,  if  you  are  really  an  artist,  your  art 
ought  to  be  more  to  you  than  any  woman.  Go  to  New 
York;  you're  much  more  likely  to  get  recognition  living 
and  working  there  than  if  you  stay  in  Boston." 

The  prestige  of  the  elder  brother,  magnified  since  he 
had  become  head  of  the  family,  compelled  a  respectful 
weighing  of  his  words.  William  saw  that  he  had  made  an 
impression;  he  closed  his  plea  by  saying,  — 

"  Don't  make  up  your  mind  at  once.  Think  the  situa- 
tion over.  If  you  do  and  are  honest  with  yourself,  you  '11 
see  that  there's  only  one  true  course  to  pursue.  If  you 
don't  take  it,  you  '11  be  laying  up  trouble  for  yourself  and 
for  her." 

"  I  will  think  it  over,"  Sidney  promised. 

He  saw  William  and  Elizabeth  take  their  departure 
for  New  Hampshire  the  next  day;  he  was  aware  that 
they  both  looked  at  him  with  a  hopeful  expression  in 
their  eyes.  But  he  was  not  ready  to  satisfy  their  ques- 
tioning interest,  —  although  he  knew  that  he  should  do 
what  they  wished.  It  might  be  that  they  were  quite 
mistaken  in  regarding  him  as  a  menace  to  Dorothy's 
happiness,  but  it  was  rather  flattering  to  think  that  he 
occupied  a  position  of  such  importance.  And  on  the 
chance  that  they  were  right,  it  was  obviously  his  duty  to 
[  285  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

go  away.  He  realized  that  though  he  was  slipping  into 
love  for  her,  it  was  as  yet  no  passion  that  prompted  him 
to  lawlessness;  he  liked  to  think  that  it  might  develop 
into  something  so  tempestuous  and  irresistible.  All  the 
more  reason,  then,  for  making  off  before  it  should  be  too 
late.  And  of  course,  even  though  Dorothy  did  care  for 
him  now,  as  William  and  Elizabeth  suggested,  —  and  he 
was  n't  sure  that  they  were  n't  making  a  Malvolio  of 
him, — her  feelings  could  n't  yet  be  very  deep  or  strong; 
she  would  not  have  more  than  quite  bearable  pangs  of 
regret  for  his  departure. 

Anyway,  he  would  do  the  right  thing.  He  acknowl- 
edged that  his  brother  had  given  him  sound  advice. 

His  strength  of  will  was  insufficient,  however,  to 
insist  upon  an  abrupt  departure.  He  could  not  deny 
himself  the  dismal  pleasure  of  bidding  Dorothy  fare- 
well. He  hoped  —  and  he  knew  it  was  unworthy  of  him 
—  to  draw  from  her  some  display  of  feeling. 

When  he  went  to  see  her,  she  had  just  returned  from 
a  walk  in  the  sharp  January  air;  her  cheeks  were  rosy, 
her  eyes  sparkled,  the  cordiality  of  her  welcome  had 
never  been  more  warm.  Sitting  in  the  pleasant  draw- 
ing-room before  the  fire,  while  she  made  tea  and  talked 
in  the  voice  that  seemed  to  him  the  sweetest  he  had  ever 
heard,  he  became  more  clearly  aware  of  the  appalling 
nature  of  the  step  that  he  was  about  to  take.  He  was 
about  to  cut  himself  off  from  the  greatest  pleasure  in  his 
life,  the  greatest  stimulus,  the  greatest  happiness.  Was 
it  necessary  that  he  should  do  this? 

And  because  he  realized  just  now  what  the  sacrifice 
would  be,  he  knew  that  it  was  necessary. 
[    286    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

His  unwonted  gravity  and  silence  drew  a  comment 
from  Dorothy. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  she  urged.  "Something  has  gone 
wrong." 

"No;  nothing."  He  hung  back  from  saying  the  words 
that  would  commit  him  to  his  painful  resolve. 

"You  look  so  glum!  Not  a  bit  like  yourself." 

"I  don't  feel  much  like  myself,  in  fact  I  feel  that 
pretty  soon  now  I  shall  be  like  somebody  quite  differ- 
ent." He  hesitated  and  then,  seeming  to  himself  in  a 
ridiculous  way  quietly  heroic,  he  remarked,  "  I  'm  going 
to  New  York  to  live." 

That  he  had  startled  her  was  obvious.  She  held  the 
lump  of  sugar  suspended  over  her  cup.  "To  live!" 

"Yes;  I've  come  this  afternoon  to  say  good-bye." 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  no  longer  sparkling,  but 
round  and  puzzled. 

"You  take  me  by  surprise.  Tell  me  about  it." 

It  disappointed  him  that  she  could  speak  so  lightly, 
with  no  accent  of  distress  in  her  voice. 

"  I  've  talked  it  over  with  my  brother.  He  feels  as  I  do 
that  there 's  probably  a  better  chance  of  my  succeeding  if 
I  go  to  New  York.  A  better  chance,  perhaps,  of  getting 
into  the  atmosphere  of  the  work  that  I'm  trying  to  do." 

She  looked  unconvinced,  and  the  look  drove  him  to 
add,  "Of  course,  that's  not  the  only  reason  —  not  the 
real  reason." 

"I  see,"  she  said  after  a  moment.  "You  don't  want 
to  tell  me  the  real  reason." 

The  pique  in  her  tone  betrayed  her  innocence.   And 
then  suddenly  he  knew  that  he  loved  her  dangerously. 
[    287    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  won't  tell  you  —  exactly.  But  I 
should  like  you  to  know,  in  a  way,  how  much  help 
you've  been  to  me,  what  you've  meant  to  me.  It 
has  n't  been  just  your  interest  and  your  criticism  — 
much  as  I  've  valued  them.  Do  you  know  the  test  that  I 
try  to  apply  to  every  woman  character  that  I  want  to 
make  an  attractive  character?  I  ask  myself,  'Would 
Dorothy  Brandon  say  that,  take  that  point  of  view,  do 
that  thing?'" 

"That's  a  very  pleasant  compliment.  And  now  you 
think  the  time  has  come  to  introduce  more  variety  into 
your  heroines  —  study  some  New  York  models?  "  Doro- 
thy's eyes  twinkled;  he  looked  at  her  reproachfully. 
But  she  continued,  quite  unmoved  by  his  appeal,  "Well, 
in  that  case  I  must  confess  you  're  acting  wisely.  But  I 
hope  you  '11  come  back  once  in  a  while  and  see  your 
friends.  I'm  afraid,  though,  you'll  find  us  then  such 
dowds!" 

He  was  deeply  disappointed  and  hurt.  How  mis- 
taken William  and  Elizabeth  had  been,  how  gullible 
himself !  Whether  he  went  or  stayed,  he  was  nothing  to 
her.  He  rose,  trying  to  cover  the  wound  to  his  pride, 
trying  to  believe  there  had  been  none  to  his  heart. 

Then,  when  he  took  her  hand,  her  lips  trembled,  her 
courage  failed,  and  she  spoiled  it  all.  "Good-bye,"  she 
murmured,  and  he  asked  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  — 

"You  are  sorry?  Tell  me  you  are  sorry!" 

She  nodded.   "Oh,  of  course,  I  knew  what  you  meant 
—  I  was  just  trying  to  make  it  easier  for  myself  —  and 
now  I  've  made  it  hard ! "  Tears  were  in  her  eyes.  "  Yes, 
of  course,  you  must  go.  Good-bye!" 
[    288    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

He  pressed  her  hand  and  tingled  to  her  responsive, 
nervous  clasp.  And  then  he  was  gone. 

She  walked  restlessly  back  and  forth  in  the  pleasant 
drawing-room.  Marriage  —  what  had  it  done  for  her? 
It  meant  that  the  moment  a  man  liked  her  and  she  liked 
him  and  they  helped  each  other  to  be  interested  and 
happy,  he  must  flee  her  as  if  she  were  the  pestilence.  It 
had  never  been  so  in  the  old  days,  before  she  was  mar- 
ried. O  for  those  vanished  days!  O  for  the  vanished 
man! 

Matrimony  was  an  island  on  which,  because  of  its 
seeming  attractiveness,  two  persons  thoughtlessly 
marooned  themselves  —  only  to  find  that  it  was  a  dull 
little  spot,  and  that  though  they  might  signal  and  signal 
no  rescuing  craft  would  ever  come. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

TWIN   PRETEXTS,   WITH   MENTION  OF  AN  IMPORTANT 
INCIDENT 

THE  only  remedy  for  unhappiness  that  Dorothy 
knew  was  the  pursuit  of  pleasure.  She  had  decided 
that  the  Morrisons'  ball  should  mark  the  occasion  of  her 
formal  reentry  into  the  gay  world;  she  had  persuaded  her 
mother  to  issue  invitations  for  a  dinner  of  twenty  on 
that  evening,  and  to  her  own  imagination  she  presented 
the  entertainment  as  one  of  considerable  significance.  It 
was  vaguely  her  idea  that  it  would  enable  her  to  show 
George  how  much  she  deserved  attention  and  considera- 
tion; how  easily  she  might  attract  it.  She  was  resent- 
fully desirous  of  teaching  him  a  lesson  through  a  demon- 
stration of  her  popularity;  she  looked  forward  thus  to 
gaining  for  herself  a  double  satisfaction.  She  wished  to 
have  George  conduct  himself  as  a  lover  once  more,  but 
first  he  should  be  made  to  woo  her  for  that  privilege.  It 
was  no  part  of  her  design  to  keep  alive  a  distracting  pas- 
sion; she  thought  it  was  her  desire  to  forget  Sidney 
Hanford  as  soon  as  possible. 

On  the  evening  of  the  dinner  and  ball  she  stood  before 
her  pier-glass  fastening  her  pearl  ear-rings;  then  she 
surveyed  the  smooth  lengths  of  pink  satin  in  which  her 
shapely  figure  was  swathed.  To  her  hair  she  gave  a  final 
tuck  here,  a  final  pluck  there,  and  then  she  turned  to  her 
husband. 

[    290    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"Do  I  please  you?"  she  asked. 

"Please  me!  You  frighten  me.  I  don't  dare  believe 
that  anything  so  splendid  is  mine!" 

"I  hope  other  people  will  forget  that  it  is.  Oh,  I  want 
to  have  a  good  time!" 

"I  shall  have  one,  just  looking  at  you." 

"You  can  be  quite  sweet,  can't  you,  George?" 

They  went  off  together  happily. 

The  great  Vasmer  house  was  illuminated  as  it  had  not 
been  for  nearly  two  years.  Mrs.  Vasmer  wore  her  re- 
splendent pearls;  she  seemed  to  enjoy  renewing  the 
sumptuous  hospitality  of  the  past.  Her  dinners  had 
always  been  characterized  by  rare  wines,  rare  fruits,  rare 
flowers;  it  was  now  the  opinion  of  the  most  experienced 
among  her  guests  that  the  long  interval  of  quiet  had 
produced  no  deterioration  in  the  standard. 

Dorothy  felt  more  at  home  in  the  big  dining-room 
than  in  her  own  small  one,  more  unconstrained  with  this 
large  party  than  facing  her  husband  across  the  table  all 
alone.  She  felt  that  she  would  love  nothing  so  much  as 
to  go  to  a  dinner  every  night.  When  at  last  it  became 
time  to  move  on  to  the  ball,  and  George,  after  handing 
her  into  the  carriage,  took  his  seat  beside  her,  she 
exclaimed,  — 

"Oh,  George,  I'm  having  such  a  good  time!  And  I'm 
going  to  have  such  a  good  time!" 

He  laughed  and  petted  her,  glad  to  see  her  so  shining 
with  happiness  and  marveling  at  the  kind  of  thing  that 
roused  in  a  woman  delight  and  excitement. 

But  the  ball  proved  disappointing.  The  men  who  used 
to  flock  around  her  did  not  so  congregate  now.  Each  one 
I  291  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

of  them  had  become  absorbed  in  another  quest,  and  she 
observed  it  with  unimagined  pangs.  Hugh  Shepard 
seemed  to  be  always  dancing  with  Ellen  Morse,  Jack 
Willard  was  noticeably  devoted  to  Sally  Duane,  Alex 
Dunbar  seemed  to  be  pursuing  a  girl  whose  very  name 
Dorothy  had  to  ask  —  and  so  it  went.  All  of  these  old 
familiar  friends  came  up  to  Dorothy  in  the  course  of  the 
evening  and  asked  her  for  a  dance,  — Hugh  Shepard 
came  twice,  —  but  it  was  not  as  it  used  to  be  when  one 
would  "break  in"  jealously  upon  another  —  when  they 
watched  one  another  like  hawks.  Now  with  each  of 
them  she  circled,  it  seemed  endlessly.  At  last,  despair- 
ing, with  no  relief  in  sight,  she  found  herself  subjected  to 
the  hitherto  unknown  humiliation  of  being  steered  up 
and  down  the  line  of  waiting,  scrutinizing  men  and  of 
being,  as  it  were,  passed  upon  unfavorably  by  them  all. 
On  each  occasion  it  was  her  husband  who  finally  relieved 
the  partner  chained  to  her  by  duty,  but  no  longer  by 
desire.  She  had  not  believed  that  being  "out  of  things" 
for  two  years  could  make  such  a  difference  —  that  being 
married  could  make  such  a  difference.  Perhaps  it 
was  n't  just  that :  she  observed  several  young  married 
women  who  seemed  to  be  popular  and  to  be  having  as 
good  a  time  as  any  of  the  attractive  young  debutantes. 
They  were  nearly  all  women  who  entertained  a  good 
deal.  Men  would  dance  with  people  who  fed  them.  Sit- 
ting out  dances,  sometimes  with  her  husband,  sometimes 
with  elderly  matrons  who  had  come  merely  to  look  on, 
Dorothy  indulged  in  bitter  reflections,  both  about  hu- 
man nature  and  about  individuals. 
And  while  she  was  thus  trying  to  comfort  her  lacer- 
[  292  1 


THE   WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

ated  feelings,  George  had  to  make  his  tactless  remark. 
He  was  waltzing  with  her,  and  as  he  really  waltzed  very 
well  she  could  have  enjoyed  it  if  he  had  not  been  her 
husband.  Suddenly  he  said,  "Isn't  it  odd!  Do  you 
realize  that  until  to-night  we  had  never  danced  together 
in  all  our  lives?" 

"Whose  fault  was  that?"  she  asked.  "Why  didn't 
you  ever  come  and  dance  with  me  in  the  old  days?" 

"I  hardly  knew  you.  And  I  used  to  feel  there  was  n't 
much  of  a  chance  to  break  in  —  you  were  always  sur- 
rounded by  men." 

"  It  must  be  a  satisfaction  to  you  to  see  how  com- 
pletely you've  put  them  to  flight." 

George,  who  had  instantly  regretted  a  comment  that 
had  implied  a  sense  of  contrast,  hastened  to  say  while  he 
increased  the  pressure  of  his  arm  about  her  waist,  — 

"You  can't  expect  me  to  feel  sorry  over  such  a  vic- 
tory, can  you?" 

And  then  because  she  laughed  he  thought  it  was  all 
right.  But  it  was  n't  all  right,  although  she  felt  she 
would  rather  die  than  let  George  know  it.  She  was  n't 
going  to  let  any  one  suspect  her  consciousness  of  humili- 
ation. But  George  ought  to  have  had  a  more  sensitive 
perception  than  to  make  such  a  remark  to  her.  And 
then  it  flashed  into  her  mind,  "Sidney  Hanford  would 
never  have  said  such  a  thing."  He  had  too  subtle  an  in- 
sight, he  would  have  known  how  a  woman  would  feel.  If 
Sidney  Hanford  were  only  at  this  ball!  Then  she 
would  n't  care  if  George  never  came  near  her,  —  and 
Sidney  would  n't  care  either,  —  not  like  those  others, 
wriggling  to  get  away  to  other  girls. 
[  293  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Then  and  there  she  made  two  resolves:  One,  not  to 
give  Sidney  Hanford  up,  the  other,  to  recover  her  old 
prestige. 

The  next  day  she  wrote  to  Sidney;  she  addressed  him 
in  the  care  of  the  New  York  magazine  that  had  just  pub- 
lished one  of  his  stories;  she  assumed  that  an  editor  so 
favorably  disposed  would  be  one  of  the  first  persons  to 
be  apprised  of  his  change  of  address.  The  story  she  made 
her  first  pretext  for  writing;  it  was  one  that  he  had  sub- 
mitted to  her  in  manuscript,  and  her  criticism  had 
prompted  him  to  make  alterations.  So  it  was  natural 
enough  for  her  to  wish  to  express  her  approval  and  appre- 
ciation of  the  story,  and  it  was  only  at  the  end  of  the  let- 
ter and  as  if  by  chance  that  she  mentioned  a  projected 
shopping  trip  to  New  York  which  she  was  taking  in 
about  ten  days.  And  in  a  bantering  way  she  asked  if  he 
would  not  give  her  an  opportunity  to  pass  upon  his  New 
York  model  of  a  heroine;  in  that  case,  perhaps,  he  would 
dine  with  her  at  her  hotel  and  they  could  have  a  pleasant 
literary  evening. 

His  reply  came  promptly;  he  would  hold  himself  en- 
gaged to  dine  with  her  on  any  evening  that  she  named. 
Thus  the  shopping  trip  which  had  originated  as  a  pre- 
text developed  into  an  enterprise. 

In  the  week  that  elapsed  before  it  Dorothy  was  rest- 
less and  excited.  Her  excitement,  as  she  well  knew,  was 
only  in  a  small  degree  attributable  to  the  prospect  of 
seeing  Sidney  again.  The  adventure,  and  the  secrecy 
with  which  she  must  carry  it  out,  the  consciousness  of 
moral  guilt  which  yet  was  not  serious  enough  to  stamp 
her  as  immoral,  the  sense  of  triumph  in  having  broken 
[  294  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

down  so  easily  another's  praiseworthy  determination, 
all  had  their  part  in  producing  the  elation  with  which 
she  anticipated  the  trip  to  New  York. 

Dorothy  could  always  be  happy  when  excitements  of  a 
pleasant  kind  were  imminent.  She  had  no  far  horizon 
on  which  to  rest  her  gaze;  her  life  had  always  been  one  of 
scrambling  eagerly  towards  events  in  the  near  future. 
Now,  cherishing  her  secret,  she  undertook  with  a  cheer- 
ful spirit  the  domestic  duties  that  had  bored  or  irritated 
her;  she  gave  the  baby  more  care  than  usual  and  tried  to 
persuade  herself  that  she  enjoyed  it,  for  she  did  not  like 
to  feel  that  she  was  in  any  respect  an  abnormal  mother. 
But  the  baby,  accustomed  to  his  nurse's  handling,  re- 
sented that  which  Dorothy  bestowed  on  him,  cried  in  his 
bath,  balked  at  his  bottle,  and  conducted  himself  in  other 
ways  with  such  disregard  for  her  sensibilities  that  she 
soon  resigned  again  the  tasks  that  she  had  appropriated. 
She  cuddled  him  and  played  with  him  at  intervals  dur- 
ing the  day  —  and  looked  forward  with  some  impatience 
to  the  time  when  he  should  be  able  to  discriminate  in  her 
favor  between  her  and  a  servant. 

She  had  decided  not  to  go  to  any  more  balls  until  she 
could  be  sure  of  a  following.  The  endeavor  to  induce 
her  mother  to  give  a  house  dance  proved  fruitless. 
George  wondered  at  the  number  of  college  youths  whom 
he  found  dining  informally  at  his  table;  he  wondered 
how  Dorothy  got  hold  of  them,  and  why.  She  confessed 
to  herself  an  ignominy  in  owing  recovery  of  social 
prestige  to  such  machinations;  still,  at  a  ball  a  man 
counted  for  a  man  —  so  long  as  he  was  not  one's  hus- 
band. 

[    295    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

The  trip  to  New  York  was  but  the  first  of  many. 
Nothing  surely  could  have  been  more  innocent  than  the 
evening  that  she  spent  with  Sidney.  The  talk  was  almost 
entirely  of  him  —  his  manner  of  life,  his  writing,  the 
recognition  that  his  work  was  beginning  to  receive;  each 
of  them  was  scrupulously  careful  to  avoid  any  reference 
to  the  circumstances  under  which  they  had  last  parted. 
After  dinner,  they  found  a  quiet  and  deserted  little 
writing-room  in  the  hotel;  Sidney  produced  his  pages  of 
manuscript;  once  more  Dorothy  was  his  Egeria. 

It  was  all  so  innocent  and,  from  Dorothy's  point  of 
view  so  satisfactory,  that  at  the  end  she  said,  "I  come 
over  to  New  York  quite  often.  I  '11  let  you  know  when  I 
come  again;  I  think  it's  pleasant  to  keep  track  of  each 
other,  don't  you?" 

"I  hope  you'll  come  often  —  and  always  let  me 
know,"  was  his  answer. 

Dorothy  stayed  over  the  next  morning  to  do  the 
shopping  required  if  she  was  to  distinguish  scrupulously 
between  truth  and  fiction.  It  imposed  upon  her  the  per- 
ception that  her  contemplated  expeditions  to  New  York 
would  be  expensive  affairs.  The  discovery  was  an  awk- 
ward one,  for  she  had  but  recently  learned  how  much  it 
increases  the  cost  of  living  to  emerge  from  mourning. 
She  consoled  herself  with  the  reflection  that  her  mother 
would  always  give  her  money  to  go  to  New  York  and 
buy  clothes,  and  with  the  fact  that  George  was  becoming 
more  prosperous.  And  she  returned  to  Boston  really 
happy  in  the  feeling  that  now  she  would  have  a  secret 
all  her  own  —  a  secret  so  little,  little  guilty  as  to  be  quite 
innocent.  There  was  no  reason  why  George  should  n't 
[  296  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

know  about  it,  except  that  it  made  it  so  much  more 
exciting  to  keep  him  from  knowing  about  it. 

With  Sidney  leashed  again  and  matters  in  train  for  a 
more  active  social  career,  Dorothy  was  reasonably  con- 
tented. A  succession  of  small  excitements  now  enabled 
her  to  perform  a  series  of  eager  scrambles,  and  for  one 
who  had  no  far  horizon  this  constituted  a  tolerably 
satisfactory  life. 

Then  Mrs.  Vasmer  fell  suddenly  ill;  a  week  from  the 
day  on  which  pneumonia  declared  itself  she  died. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

GEORGE  PREPARES  TOR  LESSONS  IN  A  NEW  SCHOOL 

SORROW  for  her  mother's  death  brought  Dorothy 
nearer  to  George.  His  tenderness  and  sympathy 
reminded  her  again  of  the  sad  days  in  London  and  on  the 
steamer  when  he  had  been  a  comfort  and  a  support.  The 
qualities  that  had  first  caused  her  to  love  him  revealed 
themselves  now;  it  touched  her  now  to  realize  how  true 
had  been  his  affection  for  her  mother,  how  well  he  ap- 
preciated her  quality,  and  how  sincere  was  his  grief. 
Dorothy  was  aware  that  her  own  attitude  towards  her 
mother  had  been  too  much  that  of  a  spoiled  child;  she 
had  buffeted  and  banged  at  her  without  compassion,  to 
get  what  she  wanted;  she  had  cajoled  and  instructed  and 
badgered  her,  but  she  had  always  felt  that  in  any  calam- 
ity, in  any  crisis,  she  would  have  her  mother,  unfailingly 
and  generously  stanch,  to  uphold  and  direct  her.  That 
broad  bosom  rather  than  her  husband's  shoulder  had 
represented  to  her  the  most  enduring  and  unchanging 
love  in  all  the  world;  Dorothy  had  never  really  thought 
of  finding  herself  deprived  of  that  haven  and  anchorage; 
she  had  relegated  such  an  event  to  the  dim  limbo  of 
inevitable  yet  unthinkable  dooms. 

Kind  and  considerate  though  George  was  at  this  time, 

appreciative  of  her  mother's  qualities  though  he  showed 

himself,  Dorothy  felt  that  not  he  but  Sidney  Hanford 

revealed  the  truest  insight  and  understanding.   Sidney 

[    298    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

had  written  to  Dorothy  upon  learning  of  Mrs.  Vasmer's 
death,  and  Dorothy  wondered  how  merely  from  the  two 
weeks'  acquaintance  at  North  East  Harbor  he  could 
have  made  so  discriminating  a  study  of  her  mother's 
character;  she  loved  him,  in  a  perfectly  pure,  impersonal 
way,  for  writing  so  beautifully  about  her.  It  made 
Dorothy  feel  more  certain  than  ever  of  his  ability  to 
interpret  the  human  heart;  she  did  not  show  the  letter  to 
George,  for  she  chose  to  feel  it  was  sacred  to  herself,  this 
beautiful  summarizing  of  her  mother's  character;  she  put 
it  away  in  a  drawer  of  her  desk,  and  often  took  it  out  for 
its  ever  fresh  and  vivid  pictures  of  one  forever  dear. 

George  found  himself  named  as  one  of  the  executors 
of  Mrs.  Vasmer's  estate.  From  his  first  conference  with 
her  legal  adviser  he  returned  home  more  troubled  than 
elated  by  his  discoveries.  It  was  the  nurse's  afternoon 
out;  Dorothy  was  putting  the  baby  to  bed,  and  the  baby 
was  crying. 

"Do  take  your  horrid  child!"  Dorothy  exclaimed. 
"He  really  behaves  as  if  he  hated  me!" 

George  laughed  and  hoisted  the  bawling  infant  into 
the  air.  The  wails  ceased;  a  second  toss  irradiated  the 
small  face  with  humorous  delight;  a  third  evoked  a 
squeal  of  tiny  laughter.  The  father  returned  his  son  to 
the  mother's  lap;  then,  when  the  small  lips  drew  down  in 
pained  surprise  at  this  betrayal,  he  dangled  his  watch 
for  the  infantile  fingers  to  clutch,  and  thus  standing  over 
the  child  and  amusing  him  assisted  in  a  peaceful  undress- 
ing. 

"I  could  keep  him  quiet  myself,"  Dorothy  said  re- 
sentfully, "if  I  could  play  with  one  hand  while  I  worked 
[  299  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

with  the  other.  I  don't  know  how  Annie  manages.  He 
does  n't  cry  with  her." 

"Never  mind;  he's  more  used  to  her;  there's  no  need 
to  be  jealous  of  Annie." 

"I'm  not  jealous  of  Annie;  how  absurd!  But  I  do 
think  that,  considering  what  I  went  through  for  him,  I 
might  have  a  more  appreciative  child.  —  Stop  it!"  For 
with  his  hands  being  torn  from  the  watch  and  poked  into 
the  sleeve  of  his  nightgown  little  George  had  again 
begun  to  wail. 

At  last  he  lay  quiet  in  his  crib,  and  in  the  next  room 
Dorothy  proceeded  to  dress  for  dinner.  George,  who  to 
her  unexpressed  annoyance  thought  it  too  great  a  bore 
to  dress  for  dinner  unless  guests  were  coming  to  the 
house,  lounged  in  an  easy-chair  and  smoked  a  cigarette. 
He  saw  that  she  was  in  a  mood  which  might  be  im- 
proved by  the  receipt  of  cheerful  news;  he  felt  that  the 
discovery  which  somewhat  troubled  him  would  seem 
cheerful  news  to  her. 

"Dorothy,"  he  said,  "have  you  any  idea  how  rich  you 
are?" 

She  turned  from  the  mirror,  interested  at  once. 

"No.  I  know  that  mother  had  a  good  deal  of  money 
of  her  own,  besides  what  father  left  her.  I  suppose  she 
had  an  income  of  forty  or  fifty  thousand  dollars." 

"Mr.  Wharton  and  I  have  been  going  over  the 
abstract  of  her  estate.  After  the  bequests  to  friends 
and  servants  and  charities  are  deducted,  there  will  be 
between  three  and  four  million  dollars'  worth  of  property 
all  left  to  you." 

"George,  you  don't  mean  it!" 
[    300    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Somehow  it  made  him  a  little  sad  that  her  eyes  were  as 
incredulously  joyful  as  her  voice. 

"Yes,  it's  rather  staggering,  is  n't  it?  I  used  to  think 
that  if  we  could  have  a  couple  of  hundred  thousand  be- 
tween us  we  'd  be  pretty  well  fixed.  Now  you  '11  be  hav- 
ing pretty  nearly  that  amount  annually." 

"Won't  it  be  fine!  Oh,  George,  are  n't  you  glad?" 

He  did  not  answer  her  directly.  "Your  mother  also 
left  me  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  You  see,  she 
wanted  to  make  me  feel  independent  of  your  great 
wealth." 

"Yes,  I  can  understand  how  she  felt.  Won't  it  be 
splendid  to  be  not  just  rich,  but  disgustingly  rich!  The 
clothes  I  '11  wear,  and  the  horses  and  carriages  we  '11  have, 
and  the  parties  I'll  give!"  He  saw  that  she  was  more 
than  half  jesting,  but  she  realized  that  her  words  were 
hardly  appropriate  to  a  state  of  mourning.  She  added 
more  earnestly,  "And  the  poor  people  we'll  help!  That 
will  be  best  of  all,  won't  it,  George?  It's  because  mother 
did  so  much  of  that  sort  of  thing  that  I  never  suspected 
how  rich  she  was." 

"It  may  be  rather  small  of  me,"  George  said,  "but  I 
can't  help  feeling  sorry,  Dorothy,  that  you  're  to  have  so 
much  money.  It  cuts  the  ground  out  from  under  my 
feet.  My  earnings  that  have  been  necessary  won't  be 
necessary  any  longer — they  will  be  positively  paltry  by 
comparison.  I  shall  be  deprived  of  what  has  been  a  great 
satisfaction." 

"You'll  be  deprived  of  miserable  worries,"  rejoined 
Dorothy. 

George  was  silent;  he  did  not  wish  to  state  what  was 
I  301  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

his  real  fear  —  that  not  only  his  earnings  but  he  himself 
might  become  hi  this  altered  condition  less  necessary  to 
Dorothy.  He  feared  that  he  might  find  himself  a  mere 
appendage  to  a  household.  And  he  was  apprehensive, 
too,  of  the  effect  of  his  wife's  inheritance  upon  his  pro- 
fessional future.  There  would  be  men  only  too  ready 
now  to  decry  him  and  his  work;  the  husband  of  an  heir- 
ess never  occupied  an  enviable  position.  That  he  could 
longer  be  earnestly  ambitious  in  the  profession  of  sur- 
gery would  be  doubted.  Opportunities  that  before  would 
have  been  open  to  him  would  very  likely  now  be  denied 
him.  And  it  would  be  a  harder  effort  to  keep  his  heart  in 
his  work;  of  that  he  was  most  afraid.  Adjusted  to  main- 
tain a  proper  balance  with  the  force  of  gravity,  the  sense 
of  financial  buoyancy  would  have  been  delightful;  but 
the  balloon  had  been  blown  too  big;  it  would  pull  him 
hither  and  thither,  skipping  and  kicking,  in  a  frantic 
effort  to  keep  a  foothold  on  the  ground. 

There  was  no  immediate  change  in  the  Brandon  way 
of  living.  Dorothy  decided  that  for  the  summer  she 
would  go  to  the  house  at  North  East  Harbor,  and  that 
when  she  came  back  in  the  autumn  they  would  move 
into  the  Commonwealth  Avenue  house.  George  acqui- 
esced; indeed,  he  felt  already  that  in  the  decision  of  such 
questions  acquiescence  must  necessarily  be  his  part. 
Dorothy,  in  making  these  plans,  was  scrupulous  to  pro- 
vide for  him.  He  must  have  an  office  elsewhere  than  in 
his  home  —  a  large  office,  with  well-equipped  waiting- 
room,  consulting-room,  and  operating-room.  She  under- 
took to  find  such  a  place  for  him,  and  she  found  it,  in  the 
next  block  on  Marlborough  Street  —  not  five  minutes' 
[  302  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

walk  from  the  Commonwealth  Avenue  house.  That 
dwelling  in  its  existing  form  did  not  have  her  approval ; 
she  put  it  into  the  hands  of  an  architect  whom  George, 
after  observing  his  work  upon  it,  termed  a  specialist  in 
abdominal  surgery  upon  houses.  His  labors,  completed 
during  the  summer,  made  the  interior  more  spacious  and 
more  elegant;  and  a  new  doorway  on  the  street  level, 
protected  by  an  elaborate  iron  grille,  gave  an  effect  of 
lightness,  youth,  and  fashion  to  the  middle-aged  facade. 

Dorothy  made  frequent  trips  to  New  York,  to  buy 
things  for  the  house  and  for  herself.  She  had  decided 
that  she  would  now  go  to  New  York  always  for  clothes ;  a 
distinct  note  of  smartness  made  its  appearance  in  her 
mourning  garments.  To  Hetty  Mallory  it  was  displeas- 
ing. Hetty  felt  that  it  transformed  an  emblem  of  sor- 
row into  an  advertisement  of  worldliness.  But  she 
uttered  no  criticism,  and  she  rejoiced  in  George's  good 
fortune  —  for  to  her  simple  soul  Dorothy's  fortune  was 
George's  good  fortune;  there  was  no  other  way  of  view- 
ing it. 

As  for  Dorothy,  she  was  quite  beyond  criticism  —  she 
gave  herself,  so  to  speak,  only  credit  marks.  Because  on 
her  trips  to  New  York  she  did  not  always  see  Sidney 
Hanford,  she  accounted  it  to  herself  as  a  merit.  She  had 
a  dim  feeling  that  they  ought  not  to  see  too  much  of  each 
other,  and  that  by  not  seeing  each  other  whenever  they 
chose,  they  stopped  on  the  safe  side.  Sometimes  it 
occurred  to  her  that  if  George  should  ever  learn  how 
often  she  and  Sidney  had  lunched  together  and  dined 
together,  it  would  be  rather  awkward  —  not  because 
there  had  been  anything  improper  in  their  so  doing,  but 
[  303  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

because  she  had  always  kept  it  a  secret.  So  all  the  more 
it  became  necessary  to  make  a  secret  of  it  —  and  that 
fact  contributed  to  the  excitement,  the  thrill,  of  the 
meetings. 

Dr.  Armazet  in  his  blunt  way  asked  George  if  he 
meant  to  keep  on  practicing  out  of  pride  or  out  of  love 
for  his  work.  "Out  of  both,"  George  answered.  "Then 
money  won't  hurt  you ;  it  may  help,"  said  the  surgeon. 
He  had  already  begun  to  treat  George  as  an  associate 
rather  than  as  an  assistant;  now  George  realized  that 
Dr.  Armazet  was  watching  him  critically  to  see  whether 
he  should  deserve  to  be  received  definitely  upon  such 
terms.  He  was  aware  of  similar  critical  scrutiny  from 
other  surgeons  with  whom  he  came  into  relation;  it 
stimulated  him  to  closer  study  and  harder  effort.  Along 
with  this  his  duties  as  executor  made  heavy  and  irksome 
demands  upon  his  time.  He  followed  Dorothy  and  her 
doings  less  observantly  than  ever.  He  was  usually  now  so 
preoccupied  as  not  to  be  keenly  aware  of  the  attitude  of 
people  towards  him;  nevertheless  there  were  occasions 
when  it  presented  itself  to  his  consciousness  humorously. 
He  could  not  help  noticing,  for  instance,  the  increased 
docility  and  eagerness  to  please  of  the  heretofore  casual 
and  indifferent  servants.  With  the  filing  of  the  will  for 
probate  the  newspapers  printed  a  list  of  Mrs.  Vasmer's 
bequests  to  charities  and  individuals,  —  including  that 
of  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  her  son-in-law,  — 
and  informed  the  public  that  the  residue  of  the  estate, 
amounting  to  between  three  and  four  million  dollars, 
had  been  left  to  her  daughter,  Mrs.  George  Brandon. 
For  some  days  thereafter  George  would  have  been  dull, 
[  304  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

indeed,  not  to  notice  the  urbanity  of  the  corner  cabman, 
the  graciousness  of  the  policeman  at  the  Boylston  Street 
crossing,  the  interest  that  even  patients,  most  self- 
jentered  of  creatures,  displayed  in  him.  It  all  made  him 
rather  shy  of  going  to  his  club,  but  when  he  entered  it 
one  afternoon  he  was  at  once  reassured.  From  a  group 
in  a  corner  Steve  Foster  called  out,  "Hello,  George!  I 
hear  that  you're  simply  rotten  with  money.  You  can 
set  up  the  drinks." 

George  and  Dorothy  were  so  busy  in  their  separate 
ways  this  spring  that  there  was  not  much  to  draw  them 
together.  Dorothy  would  not  consider  the  idea  of  hav- 
ing another  child —  at  least,  not  now,  with  all  the  prep- 
arations she  had  to  make,  and  the  necessity  of  moving 
in  the  autumn.  Besides,  she  was  entitled  to  a  rest  —  and 
George  did  n't  think  she  was  a  good  mother  anyway,  so 
probably  she  ought  not  to  have  more  children.  Always  a 
faint  note  of  bitterness  and  resentment  introduced  itself 
into  their  discussion  of  this  matter. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

GEORGE  FINDS  THAT  IT  IS  EASIER  TO  LEARN  LESSONS 
THAN  TO  TEACH  THEM 

DOROTHY  did  not  like  to  admit  to  herself  how 
much  she  was  looking  forward  to  the  summer  at 
North  East  Harbor.  It  was  not  because  of  the  charms 
the-  place  had  to  offer,  or  because  she  was  always  hap- 
pier there  than  in  Boston.  During  one  of  her  trips  to 
New  York  in  April  she  had  said  to  Sidney,  "We  see  so 
little  of  each  other  the  rest  of  the  year  —  don't  you 
think  you  could  make  us  a  visit  at  North  East  this  sum- 
mer? "  And  Sidney  without  any  compunctions  had  said, 
"Yes." 

George  made  plans  to  take  his  vacation  in  July  and 
did  not  object  to  Dorothy's  proposal  that  they  invite 
Sidney  to  pass  two  weeks  of  that  month  with  them.  At 
the  same  time  the  suggestion  reminded  him  of  Hetty's 
warning,  which  he  had  long  since  forgotten.  Now  the 
memory  disquieted  him.  A  germ  of  suspicion  got  en- 
trance to  his  mind.  Since  Hanford  had  moved  to  New 
York,  Dorothy  had  not  so  much  as  mentioned  his  name, 
yet  in  spite  of  this  six  months'  silence  she  was  proposing 
a  visit  from  him.  George  wondered  if  she  had  in  the 
interval  been  keeping  track  of  him,  exchanging  com- 
munications with  him;  only  on  that  supposition  did  the 
desire  to  invite  him  seem  plausible. 

George  did  not  choose  to  question  his  wife;  if  she  had 
[  306  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

secrets  they  were  of  course  innocent.  It  hurt  him,  how- 
ever, to  think  that  there  should  have  been  any  clandes- 
tine correspondence.  And  then  he  remembered  that  he 
had  no  evidence  of  this  beyond  the  most  vague  circum- 
stantial. He  wondered  if  perhaps  his  own  attempt  to 
win  away  another  man's  wife  had  made  him  morbidly 
ready  to  believe  that  all  men  were  philanderers  and  that 
even  the  best  of  women  had  a  receptive  ear. 

It  disarmed  him  somewhat  to  find  that  Dorothy 
planned  to  invite  the  Rappallo  family  also  for  July. 
Without  any  idea  of  the  extent  of  Dorothy's  knowledge, 
George  was  aware  that  she  knew  a  good  deal  about  his 
former  love  for  Rosamond;  and  he  had  always  admired 
the  magnanimity  with  which  she  assumed  and  never 
questioned  that  this  love  was  forever  past.  He  felt  that 
he  should  display  a  similar  magnanimity  in  not  stooping 
to  suspicion. 

When  George  arrived  at  North  East  Harbor,  he  found 
Rosamond  and  her  little  son  Robert  already  there. 
Graham  had  been  unable  to  come;  legal  work  and  town 
affairs  combined  to  make  a  long  vacation  impossible  for 
him.  The  little  Robert  was  quite  as  strong  and  promis- 
ing as  the  little  George;  Rosamond  herself  was  in  the 
most  blooming  health;  there  was  a  new  serenity  and 
loveliness  in  her  eyes.  Dorothy  confided  to  George  the 
secret  that  Rosamond  had  confided  to  her,  —  that  she 
was  going  to  have  another  baby,  —  and  asked  if  there 
was  danger  of  her  having  to  undergo  another  desperate 
crisis.  George  thought  there  must  always  be  danger. 
"  I  don't  know  how  she  does  it,  I  'm  free  to  admit,"  said 
Dorothy.  "I  could  n't.  I  never  saw  a  girl  so  changed; 
[  307  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

she  thinks  of  nothing  but  babies;  she  means  to  have  one 
right  after  another,  indefinitely.  She  used  to  be  lively 
and  up  and  coming  and  always  good  fun;  now  she's  just 
placid." 

Perhaps  Rosamond  had  changed;  George  did  not  find 
her  less  attractive  on  that  account.  She  seemed,  if  any- 
thing, simpler  and  kinder,  more  interested  in  the  little 
commonplace  things  of  life,  and  rather  whimsical  in  her 
sense  of  detachment  from  larger  issues.  When  she  heard 
Dorothy  complaining  to  George  about  the  dullness  of 
North  East,  she  exclaimed,  "Good  gracious,  Dorothy, 
you  don't  mean  that  you  still  want  to  do  things !  Why, 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  great  advantage  of  marriage  is 
its  restfulness." 

"Not  to  me,"  said  Dorothy.  "I'm  not  willing  to  sit 
and  let  the  world  go  by." 

"I  should  hate  to  think  it  might  stop  and  wait  for 
me,"  replied  Rosamond.  "I'm  quite  demoralized,  I 
admit.  I  've  reached  the  point  where  I  get  more  pleasure 
thinking  about  the  baby's  clothes  than  about  my  own." 

Indeed,  she  seemed  always  at  work  upon  some  tiny 
garment;  George  watched  her  flying  fingers  with  admira- 
tion and  sometimes  surprised  in  himself  desires  that 
shamed  him;  remembering  how  he  had  once  clasped 
those  hands,  he  felt  that  he  would  like  suddenly  to  seize 
them  again.  As  often  as  he  caught  himself  thus  playing 
with  the  fringe  of  temptation  he  was  frightened;  he  did 
not  know  what  seeds  of  lawlessness  might  still  be  lurking 
in  him.  Abruptly  he  would  take  himself  out  of  sight  of 
those  beautiful  fingers,  out  of  sound  of  the  soft  voice;  he 
would  call  on  Dorothy  to  bear  him  company,  and 
[  308  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

climbing  with  her  on  the  mountains  or  sailing  with  her 
among  the  islands  he  would  try  to  revive  the  spirit  of 
comradeship  which  was  to  have  been  warm  and  vivid 
always  and  now  seemed  to  have  sunk  into  a  torpid 
slumber.  He  was  never  conscious  of  any  great  success  in 
the  effort.  It  was  as  if,  gazing  from  the  summits  to 
which  they  climbed,  scanning  the  shores  along  which 
they  sailed,  they  dwelt  on  sights  in  visible  to  each  other. 
For  George  there  were  pictures  of  Rosamond,  serene, 
making  her  pretty,  useful  little  garments,  playing  with 
the  babies,  his  and  hers,  gallantly  expectant,  fearlessly 
content.  For  Dorothy  there  were  pictures,  too,  George 
was  sure;  sometimes  he  wondered  what  they  were,  and 
sometimes  he  wondered  that  he  cared  so  little  what  they 
were. 

When  Sidney  arrived,  George  knew  instinctively 
where  Dorothy's  thoughts  had  been.  Instead  of  being 
restless,  Dorothy  now  was  eager  and  vivacious;  instead 
of  being  moody,  she  was  now  quietly  happy.  Then,  in 
spite  of  the  sensation  that  Rosamond's  presence  gave 
him,  George  knew  that  he  did  care  very  much  what  pic- 
tures his  wife  carried  in  her  mind.  Sidney,  whom  he  had 
always  liked,  he  began  to  regard  with  suspicion  and 
hostility.  He  wondered  how  much  intercourse  there  had 
been  between  Dorothy  and  Sidney,  how  often  they 
wrote  to  each  other,  how  many  times  Dorothy  had  seen 
him  in  New  York.  He  was  too  proud  to  open  up  this 
subject  with  his  wife.  Often  it  happened  that  good 
women  fell  victims  to  absurd  infatuations  from  which 
they  speedily  recovered.  He  might  question  Dorothy's 
discretion,  but  never  her  integrity,  her  innocence. 
[  309  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Sidney  no  longer  seemed  to  George  the  frank  and 
candid  person  that  he  remembered.  George  thought  of 
the  first  evening  that  Sidney  had  ever  passed  at  the 
little  Marlborough  Street  house;  George  had  been 
amused  and  touched  and  pleased  by  Sidney's  undis- 
guised, ingenuous,  speechless  admiration  for  Dorothy; 
it  had  glowed  in  his  eyes,  it  had  entranced  his  lips.  Sid- 
ney's admiration  was  no  longer  so  easy  to  read;  he  had 
gained  subtlety  and  flexibility  and  did  not  betray  him- 
self now  with  a  glance  of  the  eye,'  much  less  with  an 
adoring  gaze.  From  his  demeanor  nothing  could  be 
inferred  beyond  the  probability  that  he  was  on  his 
guard. 

George  had  but  two  days  in  which  to  make  observa- 
tions and  draw  inferences.  He  was  unexpectedly  sum- 
moned to  Boston  by  a  message  from  Dr.  Armazet,  whom 
an  attack  of  rheumatism  had  incapacitated.  Finding 
that  his  host  was  leaving,  Sidney  proposed  to  take  his 
departure  also,  but  Dorothy  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"You've  just  begun  your  vacation;  you  must  n't  have 
it  spoiled.  Mrs.  Rappallo  is  staying  on  with  me,  you 
know,  —  so  you  need  n't  feel  that  the  conventions 
require  you  to  leave,  —  need  he,  George?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  George  replied;  his  predominating 
idea  at  this  moment  was  that  he  must  exhibit  no  sign  of 
jealousy  or  suspicion.  His  voice  was  cordial  as  he  added, 
"Don't  compel  me  to  feel,  Hanford,  that  I've  spoiled 
your  vacation  as  well  as  my  own." 

"You're  both  of  you  very  kind,"  Sidney  answered. 
"I  don't  find  it  at  all  hard  to  be  persuaded." 

Dorothy  assisted  in  speeding  the  preparations  for  her 
[  310  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

husband's  departure.  She  felt  relieved  that  he  was 
going.  She  had  already  found  that  his  presence  during 
Sidney's  visit  embarrassed  and  constrained  her  and  that 
she  did  not  show  at  her  best  either  to  her  husband  or  to 
Sidney.  Now  she  assisted  almost  too  cheerfully  in  pack- 
ing George's  bag.  He  was  thinking  that  she  took  small 
pains  to  disguise  her  feelings.  Suddenly  she  looked  up  at 
him  and  said,  — 

"You'll  come  back  and  have  a  good  long  visit  with 
me,  won't  you,  George?  You  need  the  rest;  you  know 
you  do.  And  I  shall  be  so  lonely  when  you  're  not  here  — 
especially  after  the  others  are  gone,"  she  added  hon- 
estly. 

"  Perhaps  they  can  be  persuaded  to  stay  all  summer," 
he  remarked.  "One  of  them  at  least  might  not  find  it  at 
all  hard  to  be  persuaded." 

The  dry  echo  of  Sidney's  polite  speech  caused 
Dorothy  to  flush. 

"Of  course  one  wants  to  see  something  of  other  men 
than  one's  husband,"  she  said.  "But  it  does  n't  follow 
that  one  wants  to  see  other  men  all  the  time." 

He  kissed  her  in  token  of  his  regret  for  his  acid  speech, 
but  she  received  the  caress  rather  coldly ;  she  wished  to 
let  him  know  that  she  had  been  wounded.  He  was  not 
much  concerned  over  her  coolness. 

In  the  moment  of  departure  he  was  really  more  sorry 
to  be  saying  good-bye  to  Rosamond  than  to  his  wife. 
He  would  soon  be  with  Dorothy  again,  but  there  might 
never  be  another  such  opportunity  to  renew  companion- 
ship with  Rosamond.  And  this,  that  was  to  have  lasted 
for  three  weeks,  had  been  diminished  to  five  days. 
[  311  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Later  in  the  summer  George  returned  to  North  East 
Harbor  for  a  short  visit.  There  were  no  guests  in  the  big 
house;  Dorothy  gave  him  an  affectionate  welcome, 
showed  a  keen  interest  in  his  report  of  the  progress  of 
alterations  on  the  Commonwealth  Avenue  house,  and 
after  the  first  evening  relapsed  into  spiritless  indiffer- 
ence. Life  at  North  East  for  one  in  mourning  was  very 
dull  —  so  dull  that  Dorothy  did  n't  feel  justified  in  ask- 
ing any  one  to  visit  her;  the  baby  had  reached  an  age 
when  he  screamed  if  he  was  crossed  in  anything;  the 
only  choice  for  her  seemed  to  lie  between  a  vegetating 
existence  and  a  consciousness  of  irritated  nerves.  She 
wanted  to  fly,  she  wanted  to  travel,  she  wanted  to  have 
some  excitement;  here  she  had  all  this  money,  and  what 
was  she  doing  with  it! 

George  suggested  that  he  could  help  her,  perhaps,  to 
put  some  of  it  to  use  —  in  hospital  and  dispensary  work, 
in  supplying  slum  babies  with  good  milk,  and  training 
mothers  —  But  he  spoke  incautiously ;  that  which  was  a 
hobby  with  him,  encouraged  by  his  sister  Hetty,  was  a 
peculiar  irritation  to  his  wife.  She  shut  him  off  abruptly. 

"I  really  don't  feel  that  I  care  to  hear  a  talk  on 
mothers."  Then  she  continued  in  a  burst  of  vehemence, 
"Charities  enough  recommend  themselves  to  me.  And 
goodness  knows  I  do  my  share  by  charities.  But  I  want 
to  have  fun  and  excitement  and  influence!  If  only  you 
were  in  public  life,  like  Graham  Rappallo,  so  that  I 
could  help  your  fortunes !  If  I  could  feel  that  I  counted 
—  even  if  it  was  mostly  through  my  money ! " 

"Don't  worry  about  counting;  of  course  you  count! 
But  that's  never  the  thing  to  think  of." 
[    312    J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"What  is  the  thing  to  think  of?  It's  what  a  woman 
nowadays  must  think  of." 

"If  she  does,  she's  likely  to  confuse  self-assertion 
with  self-expression.  More  women  than  ever  before 
think  that  to  assert  themselves  is  to  express  themselves. 
That  means  discontent  for  them  and  unhappiness  for 
others." 

"How  should  a  woman  express  herself?  There's  no 
one  way  for  everybody." 

"Yes,  there  is.  Self-expression  is  the  answer  that  one 
makes  to  the  voice  of  duty.  According  to  that  answer 
you  express  yourself." 

"Good  gracious!  I  feel  as  if  I  had  married  one  of  the 
Puritan  Fathers!" 

Often  when  it  suited  her  convenience  she  referred 
ironically  to  George's  little  homily.  No,  the  voice  of 
duty  had  not  instructed  her  that  the  time  had  come 
when  she  should  bear  more  children.  Duty  had  not  whis- 
pered to  her  that  she  should  always  have  one  eye  on  a 
nursemaid  as  competent  and  devoted  as  Annie,  or  that 
she  should  appropriate  Annie's  tasks.  Sometimes  she 
put  the  catchword  to  a  more  lightly  humorous  use.  The 
voice  of  duty  had  informed  her  that  when  she  got  back 
to  Boston  she  must  have  one  of  those  new  automobiles. 
She  overplayed  her  humor;  she  employed  the  voice  of 
duty  to  announce  her  various  intentions  and  desires,  and 
George  grew  accustomed  to  respond  with  a  tired  and 
silent  smile. 

After  all,  she  was  not  happy;  and  she  was  less  happy 
since  the  Sunday  that  Graham  Rappallo  had  passed  at 
her  house.  Graham  and  Rosamond  had  been  absorbed 
[  313  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

in  each  other  like  lovers  all  the  time  of  his  stay  —  quite 
unobservant  of  Dorothy  and  Sidney,  utterly  careless  of 
Dorothy's  and  Sidney's  observation.  It  was  rather 
idiotic  for  two  persons  to  be  so  engrossed  —  yet  it  must 
be  pleasant,  too.  Dorothy  knew  that  it  would  not  be 
possible  ever  to  forget  herself  with  George  in  that  way. 
Her  whole  soul  was  suffused  with  a  blind,  miserable 
pain  —  for  she  knew  that  with  some  one  else,  —  if  she 
had  met  him  first  and  he  had  cared,  —  it  might  have 
been  possible.  Even  now  it  was  a  matter  of  concern  and 
agitation  to  her  to  wonder  how  much  he  cared.  If  it  was 
very  much,  he  had  held  himself  well  in  hand,  even  at 
parting.  If  it  was  not  very  much,  could  he  and  she  be  so 
fatally  drawn  to  each  other?  If  it  was  not  very  much, 
could  he  write  to  her  as  he  did,  taking  her  into  his  confi- 
dence in  everything  except  that  which  she  most  wished 
to  know?  But,  after  all,  she  knew  it,  without  any  dec- 
laration from  him.  He  was  trying  to  be  honorable  and 
firm  and  self -controlled;  the  thought  caused  her  in  imag- 
ination to  embrace  his  knees.  She  could  not  break  off  all 
intercourse  with  him;  to  see  him  occasionally  was  neces- 
sary to  her  life  —  her  mental  and  spiritual  life.  Oh,  life 
that  might  have  been  so  glorious,  so  radiant,  and  was  so 
sad! 

She  was  disappointed  in  herself  —  never  a  moment 
when  she  was  not  disappointed  in  herself. 

And  then  must  come  her  husband,  with  his  talk  about 
the  voice  of  duty! 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

SEPARATE  ROADS 

THE  fires  of  the  October  sunset  spread  fan-like  in  the 
sky  above  the  pines.  Loose  clouds  that  a  few  mo- 
ments before  had  been  floating  like  thistledown  lay 
immobilized  in  radiance  and  crystallized  to  amber. 
Streamers  from  the  central  glow  reached  higher  and 
higher  towards  the  translucent  zenith.  A  late,  lingering 
robin  piped  its  sweet  and  poignant  note,  as  if  in  question 
of  the  mystery  of  the  flaming  west  —  ever  consuming, 
ever  unconsumed. 

From  the  veranda  of  her  house,  where  she  had  stood 
looking  off  at  the  phenomenon  that  daily  shed  a  glamour 
over  her  little  world,  Rosamond  took  her  loitering  way 
along  the  avenue  to  the  foot  of  the  slope.  She  was  all  in 
white,  from  canvas  hat  to  canvas  shoes;  she  moved,  a 
noiseless,  shining  figure,  across  the  shadowed  lawn. 
Even  with  the  sunset  there  was  no  autumn  chill  in  the 
air,  and  the  shrilling  of  the  crickets  in  the  neighboring 
meadow  and  the  chunking  of  the  frogs  in  the  distant 
swamp  betokened  no  expectancy  of  imminent  frosts  and 
muted  instruments. 

As  she  passed  the  row  of  young  horse-chestnut  trees,  a 
whim  of  memory  carried  her  back  to  the  evening  in 
spring  six  years  before  when  she  had  touched  their 
unfolding  leaves  and  thought  how  like  a  baby's  hand 
they  were.  They  were  not  like  it  any  more  —  they  had 
[  315  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

grown  large  and  different  —  but  that  fancied  resem- 
blance had  always  especially  endeared  those  trees  to  her, 
and  often  when  she  was  alone  and  near  them  she  would 
look  at  them  with  a  smile.  She  stood  for  a  few  moments 
now  absorbed  in  a  tender  memory  of  the  happy  emotion 
with  which  on  that  long  past  evening  she  had  walked 
here  and  felt  for  the  first  time  in  her  own  being  the  stir  of 
another  life  than  hers.  Poor  little  baby  who  had  never 
nursed  at  his  mother's  breast,  poor  little  mother  who 
had  been  so  cheated  of  her  hope!  —  she  thought  of  them 
with  a  not  too  tragic  pity;  the  boy  had  grown  as  one 
unaware  of  any  loss,  and  she  had  twice  now  known  the 
joy  of  suckling  a  child.  Yet  hallowed  for  her  beyond 
the  others  was  the  coming  of  her  firstborn,  sweet  the 
memory  of  the  awaiting,  keen  the  feeling  that  he  and 
she  together  had  known  suffering  and  feebleness  and 
should  be  always  all  the  more  near  and  dear. 

From  behind  the  blue  spruce  at  the  entrance  of  the 
avenue  came  a  rustle  and  a  murmur.  Rosamond 
glanced  towards  the  tree  and  smiled. 

"Bobby!  "she  called. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  and  hesitation;  then 
from  behind  the  spruce  scampered  two  little  figures  in 
white,  laughing  with  the  doubtful  glee  of  the  caught. 

"Hello,  mother!"  shouted  Bobby. 

"Hello,  auntie!"  shouted  George. 

"What  are  you  little  boys  doing  here?  You  both 
should  be  at  your  suppers." 

"George  wanted  to  see  his  daddy  come,  and  then  he 
was  going  to  jump  out  and  surprise  him,"  said  Bobby. 

"And  what  were  you  doing,  Bobby?" 
I    316    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"I  was  just  helping  George." 

"Well,  that  was  very  nice  of  you  both.  But  George's 
daddy  may  not  come  for  some  time,  and  meanwhile  your 
suppers  are  waiting.  Now  we  '11  all  have  a  race  up  to  the 
house." 

She  let  them  run  ahead,  following  always  just  closely 
enough  to  convince  them  that  she  was  trying  hard  to 
win.  She  could  n't  help  being  glad  that  Bobby  took  and 
held  the  lead;  she  could  n't  help  being  glad  that  he  was 
the  stronger  and  stouter  of  the  two;  and  yet  her  heart 
warmed  to  little  George;  he  was  a  sensitive,  appealing, 
delicate  little  boy.  Soon  she  saw  them  settled  at  the 
small  table  in  a  corner  of  the  piazza;  Alexander,  aged 
four,  and  David,  aged  two,  were  already  soberly  em- 
ployed and  did  not  permit  the  arrival  of  their  breathless 
elders  to  disturb  their  gravity.  Rosamond  seated  her- 
self where  she  could  overlook  the  proceedings. 

"I  ate  a  fly,"  Alexander  presently  announced. 

The  statement  failed  of  producing  the  intended  sen- 
sation, Alexander's  imaginings  being  pretty  well  dis- 
counted by  both  his  mother  and  his  elder  brother,  and 
being  as  yet  hardly  intelligible  to  David. 

"He  was  a  great  big  fly,"  asserted  Alexander.  "He 
had  a  green  back  and  his  wings  tickled  my  throat." 

Even  this  authentic  detail  failed  to  elicit  comment. 

"He  was  in  my  soup." 

The  lack  of  interest  betrayed  by  the  continuing  silence 
was  discouraging,  and  after  a  little  while  Alexander 
began  to  amuse  himself  by  blowing  bubbles  in  his  tum- 
bler of  water  and  making  a  gurgling  sound.  This  was 
something  that  David  could  do,  and  with  hilarity  David 
I  317  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

entered  into  competition.  Soon  all  four  were  participat- 
ing in  a  water-bubble  concert,  from  which  they  occa- 
sionally took  breath  to  squeal  with  laughter.  At  last 
Rosamond  said,  "  Now  it  is  time  for  little  boys  who  have 
finished  their  supper  to  go  to  bed."  There  was  some 
dissent  and  some  hasty  effort  to  prove  that  supper  was 
still  far  from  finished.  Resistance,  however,  was  not 
prolonged;  the  nurse  appeared  and  led  away  the  three 
little  Rappallos.  "  George  is  going  to  stay  here  with  me 
to  see  his  father,"  said  Rosamond.  "I'll  come  up  hi  a 
few  minutes  to  kiss  you  all  good-night." 

George  sat  on  a  hassock  by  his  Aunt  Rose's  chair,  — 
that  was  what  he  had  been  taught  to  call  her,  —  and 
leaned  back  so  that  his  head  rested  on  her  lap  and  his 
face  was  upturned.  Then  she  put  her  hand  under  his 
chin  and  stroked  his  chin  and  his  neck;  it  was  a  soft 
hand  that  knew  how  to  stroke  without  tickling.  She  told 
George  a  story  about  a  boy  who  crawled  with  a  sprained 
ankle  across  a  burning  bridge  and  flagged  a  train  just  in 
time  to  save  it  from  being  dashed  to  pieces  in  the  ravine 
below,  and  George,  who  had  been  getting  sleepy,  grew  so 
thrilled  and  so  entranced  that  he  hardly  heard  the 
motor-car  come  purring  up  the  avenue.  But  at  the 
sound  of  his  father's  voice,  he  bounced  up  from  the  has- 
sock and  away  from  the  story;  he  raced  along  the 
veranda  and  launched  himself  into  his  father's  arms. 

He  sat  on  his  father's  knee  with  his  head  on  his  father's 
shoulder  and  grew  drowsy,  until  he  heard  Auntie  Rose 
say  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  go  up  and  bid  her  boys 
good-night.  "And  that  means  it's  your  bedtime,  my 
son,"  said  George's  father.  Then  George  put  his  lips  to 
I  318  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

his  father's  ear  and  whispered.  "He  wants  me  to  help 
him  get  to  bed,"  the  elder  George  explained.  "Of 
course,  he  does,"  said  Rosamond,  and  she  led  the  way  up 
to  the  little  room  that  was  set  apart  as  George's  own. 
The  father  undressed  his  son,  patted  and  stroked  the 
smooth  little  body,  said,  "George,  we'll  have  to  build 
those  shoulders  up  if  we  're  to  make  a  football  player  of 
you;"  then,  with  the  pang  that  the  sight  of  innocence 
always  evoked  hi  him,  he  heard  the  kneeling  child  patter 
softly  through  his  prayers. 

He  tucked  the  little  boy  into  bed  and  bent  over  to 
kiss  him.  "Good-night,  old  man.  It's  good  to  have  had 
this  glimpse  of  you." 

"Oh!  Won't  you  be  here  in  the  morning,  father?" 
The  voice  was  disappointed,  even  grieved. 

"  I  wish  I  could  be.  But  I  have  to  go  home  in  a  couple 
of  hours.  Are  you  getting  a  little  homesick,  George?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  "Not  if  you  would 
come  every  day,  —  and  if  mother  would  come  some- 
times." The  hesitation  told  that  the  last  words  were 
added  from  a  sense  of  loyalty. 

"Mother  will  be  getting  back  from  New  York  very 
soon  now.  And  then  we'll  have  our  little  boy  at  home 
again." 

"Father!"  The  soft  cheek  brushed  the  man's  face 
caressingly,  and  the  whisper  sounded  shy  in  his  ear.  "  If 
you  were  here  always,  I  'd  like  it  better  than  home." 

In  spite  of  the  tribute  of  affection  to  himself,  George 
descended  the  stairs  in  a  saddened  mood.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  the  little  boy  had  revealed  a  sense  of  con- 
trast between  the  home  life  of  other  little  boys  and  his 
I  319  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

own.  George  wondered  if  it  could  make  little  sons  as 
unhappy  as  their  fathers.  Unhappier,  maybe,  poor 
little  chaps.  But  then  the  time  would  come  when  they 
could  be  sent  away  to  boarding-school;  and  then  there 
would  be  college,  and  after  that  a  new  life  of  their  own; 
whereas,  if  you  were  a  father  you  just  lived  always  until 
the  end  in  a  dull  consciousness  of  your  colossal  mis- 
fortune and  mistake. 

Neither  to  Rosamond  nor  to  Graham,  who  had  ar- 
rived during  the  interval,  did  George's  smile  betray  the 
depressed  state  of  his  mind.  In  fact,  at  dinner  Graham 
quickly  took  him  out  of  himself,  discussing  the  proposed 
legislation  to  reduce  the  hours  of  labor  for  women  and 
children  in  factories;  it  was  a  subject  in  which  George 
was  interested,  and  Graham  urged  him  to  testify  at  the 
hearing  before  the  committee  considering  the  bill. 

"I'll  look  over  the  hospital  records  and  see  what  data 
I  can  produce,"  George  promised.  "I  suppose  in  such  a 
matter  you  don't  care  for  mere  opinions." 

"An  opinion  from  you  would  be  valuable,"  replied 
Graham.  "But  of  course  facts  to  strengthen  it  are 
better." 

"  I  suppose  that  most  of  your  friends  and  mine  think 
that  labor  legislation  has  gone  far  enough.  Are  they 
beginning  to  look  on  you  as  a  dangerous  radical?" 

"  Well,  they  think  they  're  safer  with  me  than  with  the 
unknown  who  might  fill  my  place.  And  I  hope  they  feel 
that  when  I  take  a  position  I  don't  do  it  to  please  any- 
body." 

"Not  even  me?"  asked  Rosamond,  and  Graham 
laughed. 

[    320    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"Yes,  you've  pushed  me  a  little  further  in  this  factory 
legislation  than  I  should  otherwise  have  gone,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "  But  I  did  n't  go  so  far  until  I  'd  convinced 
myself  you  were  right.  —  Rosamond  gets  her  views  on 
such  matters  from  fraternizing  with  the  women  mill- 
workers  over  at  Ripton.  Fraternizing  does  n't  seem  the 
word,  does  it?  Sororizing  —  how  would  that  do?  Any- 
way, it 's  a  great  thing  to  have  a  wife  who  does  research 
work  for  you." 

"So  in  spite  of  family  cares  you've  come  back  into  the 
world,  Rosamond?"  said  George.  "I  remember  there 
was  a  time  when  you  thought  you  never  would  — 
did  n't  want  to." 

"Having  children  makes  one  think  after  a  while  of 
other  mothers  and  other  children,"  said  Rosamond. 
"Motoring  so  often  through  Ripton  I  came  to  notice 
and  think  about  the  mill-mothers  and  mill-children 
there.  And  from  that  I  came  to  know  some  of  them  and 
get  interested  in  them;  of  course  the  hope  that  I  might 
influence  Graham  a  little  was  an  incentive.  I  don't 
think  he  approved  of  my  interest  at  first.  Crusading 
around,  he  called  it." 

"I've  lived  to  change  my  mind,  anyway,"  Graham 
said.  "And  we'll  see  some  of  our  ultra-conservative 
friends  live  to  change  their  minds  —  about  a  good  many 
things." 

Not  so  much  a  change  of  mind  as  a  change  of  heart 
was  needed,  thought  George,  but  he  let  the  thought  lie 
unexpressed  lest  it  seem  to  bear  a  reflection  on  his  wife. 
Rosamond  asked  presently  when  Dorothy  would  be 
returning  from  New  York. 

I    321    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"I  don't  know  exactly.  She  certainly  won't  be  home 
until  after  'The  World's  Way'  has  had  its  first  per- 
formance. That  is  to  be  next  Monday." 

"  I  did  n't  know  it  had  been  dramatized.  I  liked  the 
book." 

"Yes,  the  novel  was  very  successful.  I  believe  that 
Hanford  feels  Dorothy  helped  him  a  good  deal  with  it. 
She  hopes  great  things  for  him  in  the  way  of  financial 
returns  from  the  play.  He  refused  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  the  dramatization  —  was  rather  opposed  to  its 
being  done,  but  yielded  to  Dorothy's  persuasion.  She 
feels  it  necessary  to  protect  him  from  the  consequences 
of  his  unpractical  nature." 

In  George's  voice  there  was  a  faint  note  of  irony, 
tolerant  but  a  little  sad,  perceptible  only  to  Rosamond. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  am  in  no  hurry  for  her  to  come 
home  and  take  away  her  little  boy.  I  only  wish  you 
would  lend  him  to  us  oftener." 

"I'm  really  afraid  he  wishes  so,  too.  You  would  tell 
me,  would  n't  you,  if  you  found  him  a  bother?" 

"He  could  never  be  that  —  the  nicest  little  boy!  He 
and  Bobby  get  on  splendidly,  and  Alexander  shows  him 
as  much  respect  as  he  shows  to  anybody  —  which  is  not 
saying  a  great  deal,  I  must  confess.  And  George  is  much 
more  considerate  of  David  than  either  of  David's 
brothers.  I'm  always  hoping  that  they  will  benefit  by 
his  example,  but  I'm  afraid  he's  more  likely  to  be  de- 
moralized by  them." 

"It's  a  kind  of  demoralization  that  he  does  n't  get  at 
home  and  that  might  do  nim  good." 

Soon  after  dinner  George  had  to  take  his  departure. 
[  322  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"Do  come  again  soon,"  Rosamond  urged.  "Telephone 
any  day.  Ever  since  he  learned  you  were  coming  this 
evening  your  son  was  so  excited  —  he  talked  of  it  all 
day,  and  I  had  to  bring  him  up  to  his  supper  from  the 
gate  where  he  was  lying  in  ambush  to  greet  you.  The 
little  boy  is  very  fond  of  his  dad." 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it;  the  way  Rosamond  said 
even  such  simple  things,  her  voice  and  her  look,  went  to 
his  heart;  it  would  always  be  so.  He  stepped  into  his 
motor-car  and  drove  off  down  the  avenue.  Rosamond  — 
it  was  his  favorite  among  all  names;  it  was  a  sweeter 
name  than  Dorothy.  And  he  never  thought  of  her  who 
bore  it,  he  never  saw  her,  without  knowing  that  for  him 
she  still  symbolized  romance,  retained  still  all  the  old 
mystery  and  charm.  If  it  was  disloyal  to  his  wife  to 
recognize  this  fact,  at  least  he  saw  Rosamond  as  seldom 
as  possible,  thought  of  her  as  little  as  possible;  the  rest 
was  not  within  his  control. 

How  happy  they  were,  Rosamond  and  Graham! 
George  thought  of  his  mad  attempt  to  intervene  during 
their  honeymoon  —  for  the  sake  of  Rosamond's  happi- 
ness! She  had  come  to  love  her  husband,  that  was  clear; 
she  was  a  help  to  him  in  his  work,  there  was  a  comrade- 
ship between  them  of  the  right  sort.  And  they  had  chil- 
dren —  not  one  poor,  lonely,  silent,  fragile  boy,  but 
children  who  bumped  one  another  round,  shouted  and 
laughed  and  wrestled,  fought  and  kissed  and  lived 
already  in  one  another's  lives. 

Dorothy  was  too  busy  to  devote  much  time  or  any  but 
the  most  perfunctory  affection  to  her  little  boy;  the 
child's  early  and  unchanging  preference  for  his  father 
[  323  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

and  his  nurse  had  turned  her  from  him..  She  had  been 
too  busy  to  provide  him  with  brothers  and  sisters  —  for 
the  enriching  of  his  life  and  his  father's  and  hers.  Money 
had  been  a  curse  to  her  in  that  it  had  enabled  her  to 
pursue  her  small  and  senseless  ambitions,  but  —  and 
George,  staring  ahead  along  the  tunnel  of  light  that  his 
car  bored  into  the  darkness,  passed  a  harsh  judgment  on 
his  wife  —  she  had  not  deteriorated  because  of  money; 
she  had  always  been  selfish,  never  the  woman  he  had 
thought  her  —  spoiled  to  the  core.  Money  had  made  her 
defects  more  glaring,  money  had  alienated  husband  and 
wife  from  each  other  as  poverty  would  never  have  done; 
but  not  because  of  money  only  had  George  and  Dorothy 
found  that  they  got  on  best  by  traveling  their  own 
roads. 

Dorothy's  travels  took  her  quite  literally  from  her 
husband  at  certain  seasons  every  year.  She  never  had 
difficulty  in  finding  congenially  restless  and  opulent 
women  friends  to  accompany  her  —  for  Lent  to  Palm 
Beach,  to  Europe  for  the  spring  —  one  season  she  tried 
California,  but  did  not  like  it.  Of  course,  she  was  fre- 
quently flying  to  New  York,  and  every  autumn  she 
spent  from  two  to  four  weeks  there,  preparing  for  the 
winter's  gayeties. 

Meanwhile  George  sojourned  at  home.  Dr.  Armazet 
had  retired  and  had  left  him  in  possession  of  a  large  prac- 
tice and  in  charge  of  a  flourishing  small  hospital.  For  a 
man  still  a  little  under  forty,  George's  earnings  and  pro- 
fessional standing  were  enviable  and  exceptional.  It  had 
been  a  source  of  pride  to  him  that  he  had  been  able  to 
earn  an  income  hi  some  degree  commensurate  with  his 
[  324  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

wife's.  Since  apparently  they  had  to  travel  separate 
roads,  it  had  made  it  possible  for  him  to  follow  his  course 
with  a  sense  of  independence. 

Only  recently  had  the  discovery  how  much  their  paths 
had  diverged  been  forced  upon  him.  Until  the  seventh 
summer  after  their  marriage  Dorothy  had  not  invoked 
her  unwillingness  to  bear  more  children  as  an  excuse  for 
discontinuing  marital  relations.  That  she  should  plead 
it  then  for  such  an  end  was  unreasonable ;  she  was  unwill- 
ing to  occupy  longer,  except  in  name,  the  position  of  wife. 

She  made  this  known  immediately  after  Sidney 
Hanford's  visit  to  North  East  Harbor.  Beyond  a  certain 
point  George  did  not  question  her  motives;  it  was  suffi- 
ciently obvious  to  him  now  that  the  friendship  which  he 
had  persisted  in  regarding  as  harmless  had  taken  on  a 
deeper  significance. 

George  had  then  written  to  Hanford  the  briefest  of 
notes:  "Unwittingly,  no  doubt,  you  have  come  between 
me  and  my  wife.  Learning  that  this  is  the  fact,  you  will, 
of  course,  discourage  her  infatuation  by  declining  further 
opportunities  to  promote  it." 

Hanford  replied,  "I  do  not  recognize  that  there  is 
infatuation  on  either  side.  Therefore,  I  cannot  consent 
to  have  a  course  of  action  dictated  to  me." 

George  pinned  together  a  copy  of  his  note  and  Han- 
ford's  reply  and  showed  them  to  his  wife.  A  flush 
streamed  over  her  face  as  she  read,  and  her  lips  curled 
angrily. 

"A  pleasant  way  in  which  to  write  about  your  wife!" 

"  It  is  because  I  wish  to  retain  her  as  my  wife  that  I  so 
write,"  George  responded  gravely. 
[    325    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

He  said  no  more;  he  wrote  no  more;  he  trusted  hope- 
fully to  the  word  "infatuation"  to  rankle  in  the  young 
man's  mind  and  produce  disillusion.  Even  when  she  an- 
nounced to  him  that  she  was  going  to  New  York  and 
should  stay  for  the  opening  night  of  the  play  founded 
on  Hanford's  novel,  he  made  no  comment,  and  he  sent 
no  further  message  to  Hanford. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE   NIGHT   OF  THE   PLAY 

THE  trickle  of  people  into  the  theater  had  swollen 
now  to  a  stream,  the  body  of  which  seemed 
dammed  behind  the  rail  while  the  overflow  made  rivu- 
lets down  the  aisles  and  off  among  the  stalls.  The  re- 
ports of  the  seats  as  they  were  snapped  into  place  were 
sweeter  music  to  Dorothy's  ears  than  that  furnished  by 
the  orchestra.  Sitting  ten  rows  back  on  an  aisle,  she  had 
been  quivering  with  panic,  hope,  joy,  and  expectancy. 
How  terrible  if  people  should  not  come  —  if  the  actors 
had  to  play  to  an  almost  empty  house!  She  had  dined 
alone  in  her  rooms  at  the  hotel  and  had  been  too  ex- 
cited to  eat;  she  had  come  to  the  theater  alone,  wishing 
to  be  unrestricted  in  the  enjoyment  of  her  sensations. 
She  looked  on  the  first  few  persons  scattered  about 
among  the  stalls  with  warm  friendliness  and  an  almost 
abject  sense  of  gratitude;  but  as  by  degrees  the  theater 
filled  and  she  noted  the  commonplace  faces  and  heard 
fragments  of  commonplace  chatter,  she  felt  irritation 
rather  than  gratitude  towards  these  people;  they  should 
have  come  eagerly  expectant,  tremulous,  understanding 
the  high  importance  of  the  occasion,  aware  of  their 
privilege,  even  a  little  awed.  Oh,  if  they  should  prove 
as  stupid  as  they  looked,  most  of  them,  and  not  appre- 
ciate, not  respond !  But  the  filling  of  the  stalls,  proceed- 
ing at  greater  and  greater  speed,  inspirited  her;  after 
[  327  ] 


all,  there  must  be  some  intelligent  people  among  so 
many  —  and  it  did  n't  so  much  matter  whether  they 
were  intelligent  or  not,  if  only  they  were  well  disposed ! 
And  of  course  they  were;  most  of  them  had  no  doubt 
read  the  novel  and  had  come  because  they  liked  it. 

The  orchestra  played  lively  airs,  Dorothy's  hands 
grew  cold,  her  heart  was  prayerful;  she  glanced  from  the 
curtain  to  her  watch,  and  from  her  watch  to  the  cur- 
tain, and  she  wondered  where  Sidney  was  —  that  boyish 
prodigy  with  the  long  eyelashes !  She  knew,  from  other 
sources  than  himself,  that  quite  against  his  will,  yield- 
ing to  entreaties  from  both  manager  and  dramatizer, 
he  had  become  involved  in  the  final  preparations  for 
the  production.  So  no  doubt  he  was  now  in  that  magic 
region,  behind  the  scenes;  what  was  he  doing,  how  was 
he  looking  and  feeling  ? 

She  had  not  seen  him  since  a  day  in  July  when  he  had 
bade  her  farewell  on  the  wharf  at  North  East  Harbor; 
no,  although  she  had  been  in  New  York  now  for  three 
weeks,  she  had  not  seen  him,  had  not  let  him  know  that 
she  was  in  town.  So  much  had  her  husband's  note  to 
Sidney  accomplished.  The  poisonous  word  in  it  had 
intimidated  her;  she  found  herself  dreading  to  do  any- 
thing which  might  seem  to  Sidney  to  justify  that  word. 
His  invitation  to  come  to  the  opening  performance  and 
after  it  to  take  supper  with  him  and  a  few  of  the  com- 
pany was  forwarded  to  her  from  Boston,  and  she  had 
accepted  it  without  even  then  letting  him  know  where 
she  was.  Now,  waiting  for  the  curtain  to  rise,  she 
wondered  if  he  would  find  her  in,  the  audience;  she 
wondered  if  the  supper  would  celebrate  a  triumph,  and 
[  328  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

she  pressed  her  hands  together  and  thought,  "It  must! 
It  must!" 

And  then  Sidney  stood  beside  her;  he  was  bending, 
laughing,  and  speaking  into  her  ear,  "Hello!  I  found 
you,  for  all  you've  hidden  yourself  so  modestly  away! 
Did  n't  you  want  to  sit  farther  up  front?  How  good  you 
were  to  come!" 

In  his  presence,  under  the  warm  excitement  and 
persuasive  softness  of  his  voice,  all  her  self-conscious- 
ness fled;  her  voice  was  as  eager  as  his. 

"Oh,  I  had  to  come!  Nothing  could  have  kept  me 
away!" 

They  could  not  be  unaware  of  the  joy  in  each  other's 
eyes,  they  could  not  wish  the  light  of  any  other  emotion 
to  appear  in  their  own. 

"I've  been  wondering  about  you,"  she  said,  "where 
you  were,  how  you  were  feeling  —  wondering  if  you 
were  as  excited  as  I.  Shall  you  see  it  from  somewhere  in 
the  wings?" 

"No;  I  have  a  couple  of  seats  two  rows  back.  I  wish 
you  would  come  and  sit  with  me. " 

"Oh!"  she  said,  and  nothing  before  had  ever  given 
him  quite  such  an  exquisite  thrill  as  her  breathless  de- 
light. "Are  you  sure  you  want  me?  Beside  you  —  all 
through?" 

"  I  'm  sure  —  all  through ! " 

She  followed  him  to  his  seats. 

"I've  never  been  so  thrilled  over  any  play  before," 
she  said. 

"Neither  have  I,"  he  answered.  "And  yet  it  isn't 
really  mine." 

[    329    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"All  that  is  best  in  it  will  be  yours." 

"Some  of  the  best  in  it  will  be  yours." 

They  laughed,  with  half  suppressed  excitement. 

Then  with  the  turning  down  of  the  lights  there  was 
a  hush;  the  curtain  rose.  Dorothy's  heart  beat  so  hard 
that  she  wondered  if  Sidney  heard  it.  People  coming 
hi  to  their  seats  made  so  much  noise  that  for  a  few 
moments  the  words  of  the  play  were  lost;  then  there 
was  quiet;  then,  oh  blessed  sound,  there  was  a  laugh, 
a  broad,  spontaneous  laugh,  rolling  as  it  were  up  from 
the  audience  right  on  to  the  stage.  Dorothy  turned 
to  Sidney.  "It's  going!  It's  taking  hold!"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"Pretty  early  to  tell,"  he  answered;  but  he  was  feel- 
ing wonderfully  buoyant  and  serene.  His  was  a  happy 
situation;  if  the  play  was  a  success,  he  as  the  author  of 
the  already  popular  novel  must  enjoy  the  chief  glory 
of  creation;  if  it  went  badly,  the  burden  of  its  failure 
must  fall  upon  the  dramatizing  drudge.  It  surely  was 
starting  well.  He  could  not  help  admiring  and  enjoy- 
ing the  vitality  of  the  action  that  he  had  imagined,  he 
could  not  help  being  more  pleased  with  the  speeches 
that  were  his  than  with  those  that  the  playwright  had 
introduced.  The  quivering  enthusiasm  and  excitement 
of  the  woman  beside  him  were  sweeter  than  the  re- 
sponsiveness of  the  crowd.  As  the  act  moved  towards  its 
end,  it  tightened  its  grasp  on  the  audience.  The  climax 
was  one  of  emotion  rather  than  of  comedy;  a  deeper 
hush  hung  over  the  body  of  the  house,  people  were  look- 
ing and  listening  with  strained  intentness.  When  the 
curtain  fell,  applause  brought  actors  and  actresses  forth 
[  330  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

again  and  again  to  bow  their  acknowledgments  —  all 
together,  then  one  after  another,  then  in  groups  and 
pairs,  then  all  together  again. 

"Oh,  are  n't  you  proud!"  Dorothy  whispered. 

"I  hope  the  demonstration 's  genuine, "  Sidney  an- 
swered. 

"It  is,  of  course.  Can't  you  tell!  And  how  proud 
your  brother  and  his  wife  must  be!  I  suppose  they're 
here." 

"No;  illness  at  home  —  the  little  girl.  Nothing  seri- 
ous, but  they  could  n't  come. " 

"How  disappointing!"  Dorothy  was  really  thinking, 
"How  fortunate!"  She  had  been  afraid  of  encountering 
the  brother  and  his  wife  at  supper;  she  was  afraid  that 
they  would  disapprove  of  her  presence;  and  now  her 
spirits  soared. 

"Do  go  behind  the  scenes,"  she  urged.  "They'll 
all  be  wanting  to  see  you,  and  you  want  to  see  them. 
Do  go  —  just  for  the  intermission  —  and  then  bring 
me  all  the  gossip. " 

While  he  was  gone,  Dorothy  entertained  herself  by 
listening  to  comments  on  the  play.  They  were  all  favor- 
able; the  prevailing  opinion  seemed  to  be  that  it  was 
"sweet."  Dorothy  scorned  the  intonation  with  which 
the  word  was  employed,  but  accepted  the  tribute. 
Indeed,  the  playwright  had  distilled  all  the  magnetic 
human  qualities  of  the  novel  —  the  sentiment,  the 
humor,  the  tenderness.  How  fine  the  mind  in  which  they 
had  originated,  how  lovable  the  spirit  that  they  reflected! 
And  mind  and  spirit,  were  they  tangible,  had  been  at 
her  very  elbow,  had  almost  brushed  her  shoulder,  — 
I  331  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

and  had  looked  at  her  out  of  such  eager  and  excited 
eyes! 

Back  came  Sidney  just  before  the  curtain  rose  for  the 
second  act. 

"Aren't  they  pleased  with  the  way  it's  going?"  she 
asked.  "And  oh,  I  hope  you  said  nice  things  to  them 
—  for  they  're  all  doing  it  so  well,  all  except  one  or  two. " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  said  nice  things  even  to  the  one  or  two. 
The  manager  is  really  quite  ecstatic  —  predicting  a 
whole  season's  run.  Perhaps  the  next  act  will  be  a 
fizzle  and  then  he  '11  talk  of  taking  it  off  next  week. " 

"There  will  be  no  fizzle,"  declared  Dorothy.  "I 
feel  sure  that  the  second  and  third  acts  are  even 
better." 

To  the  audience  they  seemed  so.  And  when  the  cur- 
tain fell  on  the  third  and  final  act,  the  people,  instead 
of  hurrying  from  the  theater,  remained  in  their  seats 
and  applauded  and  applauded.  Dorothy  clapped  furi- 
ously, everybody  clapped,  everybody  except  Sidney. 

"Clap,  why  don't  you?"  cried  Dorothy,  turning  to 
him  with  laughter  brimming  in  her  eyes.  "If  you  don't, 
you'll  attract  suspicion  to  yourself." 

"All  right,  I'll  clap  the  actors";  and  Sidney  joined 
in  the  applause. 

"It  is  n't  the  actors  they're  clapping.  It's  the  novel- 
ist—the author  of  'The  World's  Way'  that  has  sold 
a  hundred  thousand  copies!  They  want  to  see  what  you 
look  like.  They  want  to  hear  you  speak. " 

"No,"  he  declared  vehemently.   "No." 

But  his  presence  in  the  audience  had  been  discovered; 
people  were  pointing  him  out  to  one  another;  here  and 
[  332  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

there  friends  of  his  were  on  their  feet,  clapping  and 
smiling  and  nodding  at  him. 

"Oh,  you  must  go  up  and  say  something,"  Dorothy 
whispered. 

"Well!"  He  spoke  resignedly.  "Wait  for  me;  it 
won't  be  long." 

Dorothy's  heart  began  to  pound  again  as  it  had  done 
just  before  the  rise  of  the  curtain.  She  watched  the 
curtain  as  intently  as  when  she  had  known  it  would  go 
up  within  a  few  seconds.  Then  Sidney  stepped  out  in 
front  of  it,  leading  John  Burton,  the  playwright,  by 
the  hand,  and  at  once  the  dogged  clamor  of  the  audi- 
ence came  to  its  culmination  in  a  great  explosion  of 
applause.  Dorothy  felt  herself  on  the  verge  of  tears, 
there  was  a  lump  in  her  throat,  she  was  throbbing  in 
the  utmost  luxury  of  joyous  excitement.  Sidney,  with 
his  smile  and  his  embarrassed  manner,  looked  appeal- 
ingly  boyish;  more  than  ever  in  that  moment  she 
thought  of  him  as  just  a  boy. 

And  in  his  halting  little  speech  there  was  a  boyish- 
ness that  still  further  won  the  crowd  and  seemed  to 
make  the  lump  swell  in  Dorothy's  throat. 

"  Mr.  Burton  here  is  so  overcome  by  this  ovation  that 
he  wants  me  to  speak  for  him,"  he  said.  "And  I'm 
willing  this  once  to  do  it,  for  it  gives  me  the  oppor- 
tunity to  thank  him  for  the  pleasure  I  've  had  in  seeing 
action  and  characters  with  which  I  was  familiar  trans- 
ferred to  the  stage  and  made  more  interesting  in  the 
process.  And  as  for  the  actors,  they  have  made  my 
people  seem  actually  real  to  me.  But  I  don 't  know  really 
that  I  should  thank  Mr.  Burton  for  anything.  The  play 
[  333  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

strikes  me  as  so  much  better  than  the  novel  that  it's 
likely  to  kill  the  novel;  and  as  the  novel  is  mine  and  the 
play  is  Mr.  Burton's  I  think  perhaps  I  owe  him  resent- 
ment rather  than  gratitude.  And  to  show  my  resent- 
ment, I  shall  simply  leave  him  here  all  alone,  to  speak 
for  himself. " 

With  that,  he  quickly  slid  off  by  the  opening  through 
which  he  had  made  his  appearance;  Burton,  to  the  de- 
light of  the  audience,  hastily  scrambled  after  him. 

At  the  little  supper,  where  Sidney  was  host  and 
Burton  and  four  members  of  the  company  were  guests, 
Dorothy  received  the  laurel  wreath.  She  heard  Sidney 
tell  the  others  that  he  could  never  have  written  "The 
World's  Way"  had  it  not  been  for  her  help  and  criti- 
cism —  that  if  it  had  n't  been  for  her,  Mr.  Burton 
would  have  had  no  novel  to  transform  so  miraculously. 
Everybody  was  happy,  everybody  congratulated  every- 
body else,  champagne  fizzed,  sparkled  and  vanished; 
it  was  a  happy,  happy  evening. 

At  last  the  guests  took  their  leave.  Dorothy  said 
good-night  to  her  host.  "No,  no, "  he  answered.  "Wait 
a  moment;  I'm  going  to  take  you  to  your  hotel." 

In  the  cab  Dorothy  settled  herself  with  a  sigh. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "hasn't  it  been  a  glorious  evening! 
And  are  n't  you  thrillingly  happy!" 

"Not  really,"  he  replied.  "The  evening  has  made 
me  quite  unhappy.  Can't  you  guess  why?" 

"No."  But  she  felt  a  sudden  tightening  of  her 
nerves. 

"Because  it's  made  me  know  that  you  are  the  only 
woman  I  could  ever  love.  For  a  long  time  I've  been 
[  334  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

hoping  that  it  was  n't  so  —  that  I  might  find  some  one 
else.  —  But  I  never  shall.    You  're  the  only  one." 

"No,"  she  said  tremulously.   "No." 

"Yes;  it's  true.  —  To  have  you  by  my  side  there  to- 
night —  what  bliss  it  was !  What  is  my  little  triumph 
worth !  There 's  only  one  triumph,  one  success  —  to 
have  the  woman  one  loves." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  n't  feel  that."  Her  voice  was  low 
and  constrained.  "A  man  loves  more  than  once." 

"A  man  proposes  marriage  more  than  once,  he  mar- 
ries more  than  once,  but  he  loves  only  once,"  Sidney 
replied  earnestly. 

She  questioned  the  assertion  in  her  heart,  but  not 
with  her  lips. 

"If  things  had  been  different,  couldn't  you  have 
loved  me?" 

"If  things  had  been  different  —  how  could  I  tell?" 

"  If  things  were  different,  could  n't  you  love  me 
now?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Could  n't  you  —  Dorothy?" 

He  felt  that  she  was  trembling.  After  a  moment 
came  the  words,  breathed  rather  than  spoken,  "I 
might." 

His  arm  slipped  round  her.  "Oh,  let  me  have  a  kiss  — 
for  the  sake  of  our  love!" 

Only  the  stopping  of  the  cab  made  them  draw  apart. 
At  the  hotel  entrance  they  bade  each  other  farewell. 
There  under  the  lights  their  agitation  was  visible  to  each 
other,  made  each  seem  to  the  other  more  loving,  more  to 
be  loved. 

[    335    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"I  may  see  you  to-morrow?" 

"No."  She  spoke  positively  yet  pleadingly.  "No.  I 
shall  go  back  to  Boston  to-morrow.  You  must  not  try  to 
see  me.  No.  Good-bye." 

She  fled  from  him,  into  the  hotel.  But  his  kiss  flamed 
in  her  heart;  even  more,  the  kiss  that  she  had  given  him 
seemed  to  have  carried  with  it  her  soul. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

BETWEEN  HUSBAND   AND   WIFE 

COMING  in  from  Brookline,  where  he  had  been 
visiting  a  patient,  George  lay  back  in  the  corner 
of  the  limousine,  with  his  eyes  closed.  He  was  tired  and 
his  head  ached;  and  so,  although  it  was  an  hour  in  the 
afternoon  when  he  made  it  a  rule  to  avoid  the  Com- 
monwealth Avenue  house,  he  was  going  home. 

He  found  his  wife's  limousine  waiting  in  front  of  the 
house  and  her  chauffeur,  in  bearskin  coat  and  cap, 
standing  in  well-disciplined  immobility  on  the  pave- 
ment. Receiving  a  military  salute  from  each  chauffeur, 
George  passed  into  the  vestibule.  He  entered  the  house 
to  find  Richards,  the  butler,  ready  in  the  hall  to  take  his 
hat  and  coat,  and  as  he  surrendered  them  he  wondered 
how  Richards  managed  it  —  soft-footed,  ubiquitous, 
urbane;  he  could  not  remember  ever  entering  the  house 
at  any  reasonable  hour  without  finding  the  incomparable 
servitor  on  hand  to  receive  hat  and  coat  and  stick  and  to 
bear  them  away  proudly  as  if  they  were  decorations. 

George  glanced  into  the  drawing-room;  the  odor  of 
cigarette  smoke  blended  with  other  fragrances  less 
pungent  and  more  sweet.  Wilson,  the  second  man,  was 
rapidly  moving  chairs  and  tables  into  place  and  glanced 
up  in  a  deprecatory  manner;  he  was  one  of  those  excel- 
lent servants  who  feel  that  unless  they  have  succeeded  in 
I  337  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

performing  their  duties  by  stealth  they  have  fallen  short 
in  technique. 

"A  party  of  some  sort?"  asked  George. 

Richards  reappeared  noiselessly  to  answer. 

"Mrs.  Brandon's  Tuesday  bridge,  sir.  We're  a  bit 
tardy,  sir,  in  restoring  order." 

George  ascended  the  stairs.  His  wife's  dressing-room 
door  was  open;  she  was  putting  on  her  furs  and  turned 
from  the  mirror  as  he  paused. 

"Well,"  she  said.  "What  brings  you  home  at  this 
hour?" 

Mild  curiosity,  not  annoyance,  was  in  her  tone. 

"I  'm  feeling  rather  used  up  and  I  decided  to  knock  off 
and  rest;  I  think  you  said  we  were  dining  out  to-night." 

"Yes,  at  the  Mayos'." 

"That  means  bridge,  I  suppose." 

"Yes.  Of  course,  if  you're  not  feeling  well,  I  can 
telephone — " 

"No,  I  share  your  principles  against  withdrawing  at 
the  last  moment.  I  shall  be  all  right  after  an  hour's 
rest." 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?" 

"Nothing,  thank  you.  You're  going  out?" 

"Yes,  to  a  rehearsal  of  the  Tableaux  vivants  at  Copley 
Hall.  It's  a  bore,  but  I'm  in  for  it." 

"How  did  you  fare  with  your  bridge  this  afternoon?  " 

"Oh,  I  won  thirty-five  dollars.  I  would  rather  have 
lost.  Elsie  Garnett  is  the  worst  possible  loser." 

"You  look  very  handsome." 

"Thank  you."  She  did  not  smile;  she  never  smiled 
any  more  when  he  paid  her  such  compliments.  He  con- 
[  338  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

tinned  to  pay  them  in  the  hope  that  some  time  she  would 
smile. 

In  his  own  room  he  put  on  a  dressing-gown  and  lay 
down  upon  the  couch.  He  thought  he  could  go  to  sleep, 
but  instead  he  lay  musing  disconsolately.  What  progress 
had  he  made  in  the  five  months  that  he  had  been  follow- 
ing his  plan  for  winning  back  his  wife?  By  force  of  self- 
control,  he  had  shown  her  invariably  cheerfulness  and 
good  temper;  he  had  never  uttered  one  reproachful  or 
sarcastic  word;  he  had  never  by  any  comment  or  inquiry 
indicated  distrust  of  her,  notwithstanding  her  frequent 
trips  to  New  York.  To  some  extent,  he  had  sacrificed 
industry  and  ambition  in  his  persevering  effort  to  regain 
her  companionship  and  love.  Never  before  since  they 
had  been  married  had  they  gone  about  as  much  together 
as  now.  George  accompanied  his  wife  to  dinners  and 
concerts  and  theaters  and  balls,  assisted  her  in  her  enter- 
taining, even  condescended  to  what  he  regarded  as  the 
sordid  vulgarity  of  sitting  at  cards  with  ladies  and  play- 
ing for  stakes.  He  knew  that  these  activities  did  not  im- 
prove his  professional  standing,  he  knew  that  they  were 
noted  and  commented  on  by  other  surgeons,  and  that  it 
was  said  of  him,  "Another  good  man  spoiled  by  too 
much  money."  He  himself  felt  that  he  had  not  deteri- 
orated, that  if  only  he  could  regain  possession  of  the 
love  that  he  had  lost  he  could  recover  quickly  enough 
the  lost  prestige. 

But  he  could  find  no  encouraging  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion, "What  progress?"  Dorothy  was  not  hostile;  she 
did  not  treat  him  as  if  she  disliked  him;  she  was  invari- 
ably pleasant  in  a  cool  and  rather  studied  way.  Be- 
[  339  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

tween  them  there  were  never  any  disagreeable  scenes. 
But  all  intimacy  was  at  an  end  —  not  merely  intimacy 
of  a  physical  sort,  but  intimacy  of  thought  and  speech. 
She  made  no  pretense  of  being  interested  in  his  pursuits 
—  and  thus  far  his  striving  to  interest  himself  in  hers 
had  been  barren  of  result,  had  met  only  with  perfunctory 
acceptance,  unresponsive  tolerance.  Neither  he  nor  she 
ever  mentioned  Sidney  Hanford  to  each  other.  George 
supposed  that  she  saw  Sidney  whenever  she  went  to 
New  York;  she  no  longer  gave  any  reason  for  making 
these  trips.  George  believed  that  Sidney  did  not  come 
to  Boston  to  see  her.  He  believed  absolutely,  too,  that 
between  her  and  Sidney  no  criminal  intimacy  ex- 
isted. 

But  she  never  permitted  George  to  kiss  her;  and  she 
locked  the  door  of  her  room  at  night.  About  that  George 
had  on  one  occasion  remonstrated.  "  It  makes  me  feel  as 
one  might  at  being  put  under  arrest.  Is  n't  it  enough  to 
be  in  that  situation  without  having  the  handcuffs 
applied?" 

"  I  simply  feel  that  it  removes  the  possibility  of  argu- 
ment and  unpleasantness  and  insures  my  privacy," 
Dorothy  answered. 

The  barrenness  of  a  life  of  wedded  celibacy  seemed 
sometimes  intolerable.  Was  it  worth  while  to  maintain 
it?  He  had  been  putting  that  question  to  himself  with 
increasing  frequency.  If  he  had  ever  been  able  to  detect 
a  sign  of  softening  in  his  wife,  however  momentary,  .an 
indication  of  affection,  however  slight,  it  would  have  in- 
spired him  with  hopefulness.  That  quality  was  being 
drained  away.  With  it  was  departing  warmth  of  feeling 
[  840  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

for  his  wife;  he  had  begun  to  realize  that  it  was  merely 
a  matter  of  time  before  his  indifference  to  her  should 
match  her  indifference  to  him.  Why  should  he  not  ter- 
minate the  miserable  relationship  and  get  what  pleasure 
and  satisfaction  he  could  out  of  life?  He  thought  a  good 
deal  about  that  question;  pessimism  and  passion  to- 
gether tempted  him.  But  sanity  triumphed  over 
moods;  he  knew  that  his  two  chief  sources  of  pleasure 
and  satisfaction  were  his  work  and  his  son.  What  chance 
of  retaining  these  would  he  have  if  he  involved  himself 
in  scandal?  Besides,  sentiment  held  more  than  a  corner 
of  his  heart.  He  felt  that  he  must  live  straight  if  he  was 
to  be  a  good  father. 

So,  if  he  failed  in  his  constant,  patient  effort,  —  and 
he  was,  indeed,  beginning  to  despair  of  success,  —  it 
would  be  his  duty  to  play  a  part  before  the  world,  before 
his  household,  before  his  child.  Kindness  without  affec- 
tion, gentleness  without  love,  a  continuous  compromis- 
ing of  interests  and  ideas  with  no  compensating  inter- 
course of  spirit  —  how  long  could  a  man  keep  it  up ! 

George  thought  of  the  little  George  and  answered, 
"For  life." 

And  when  he  had  thus  answered  the  question,  new 
strength  flowed  into  his  heart;  he  must  n't  stop  trying, 
he  must  n't  let  Dorothy  ever  think  that  he  had  ceased  to 
care  for  her,  he  must  n't  cease  to  care  for  her.  After  all, 
there  were  memories  enough;  dwelling  on  them  could 
not  fail  to  reawaken  tenderness. 

The  sound  of  his  boy's  voice  came  to  him  up  the 
stairs. 

"Hello,  George!"  he  called. 
I    341    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

A  squeal  of  joy  was  the  answer. 

"Dad!  Oh,  dad!  Where  are  you?"  There  was  the 
scamper  of  excited  feet  along  the  hall. 

"Well,  old  man!  What  have  you  been  up  to?  Your 
cheeks  are  as  red  as  apples — and  as  cold  as  snowballs!" 
George  snuggled  the  boy  close  to  him  on  the  couch. 

"I've  been  skating;  I  skated  all  the  way  round  the 
pond  in  the  Public  Garden,  and  I  did  n't  fall  down  once! 
When  will  you  come  to  see  me  skate,  dad?" 

"Perhaps  to-morrow." 

"It's  lots  more  fun  doing  things  if  you're  there,  dad." 

"And  it's  lots  of  fun  for  me  to  be  there  when  you're 
doing  things,  old  man." 

"My  feet  felt  awfully  funny  when  I  took  off  my 
skates.  Do  yours  always  feel  like  that  when  you  Ve  been 
skating,  dad?" 

"They  always  used  to.  And  I  remember  how  my 
stomach  used  to  feel  after  I'd  been  skating,  too." 

The  boy  gave  a  chuckle  of  sympathetic  appreciation. 

"Is  n't  it  lucky  it's  about  your  supper-time,  old  man? 
You  could  n't  wait  an  extra  half -hour  for  your  supper 
to-night,  could  you?" 

"I  could  if  I  knew  there  would  be  ice-cream." 

George  the  elder  laughed.  "We'll  come  along  and  get 
you  washed  up,  and  then  we'll  go  down  and  see." 

He  sat  at  the  table  while  the  little  boy  ate  his  supper. 
And  behold,  there  was  ice-cream! 

"And  you  did  n't  have  to  wait  for  it,"  George  said. 
"You're  a  pretty  lucky  fellow,  it  seems  to  me." 

For  the  sake  of  argument  the  young  George  was  dis- 
posed to  pick  flaws  in  his  luck. 
[    342    ] 


"  Maybe  if  I  'd  had  to  wait  I  'd  have  been  hungrier  and 
then  I  could  have  eaten  more." 

"  And  then  you  'd  have  had  a  tummy-ache.  And  there 
would  n't  have  been  much  luck  about  that,  would 
there?" 

After  tucking  the  boy  into  bed  and  getting  his  good- 
night kiss,  George  returned  to  his  room.  It  was  not  yet 
time  to  dress :  —  he  drew  a  chair  up  in  front  of  the 
blazing  wood  fire  and  sat  in  contented  idleness  while 
Wilson  moved  softly  about  behind  him,  laying  out  his 
clothes.  Marriage  had  n't  been  such  a  failure  when  it 
had  presented  him  with  that  boy.  He  could  look  for- 
ward along  the  years  and  see  the  boy  developing,  grow- 
ing to  be  more  and  more  a  companion.  Life  would  get 
happier  as  he  grew  older,  not  more  sad. 

Presently  he  heard  his  wife  enter  her  room  and  he 
knew  that  he  must  not  idly  meditate  and  dream  any 
longer.  Preparation  for  action  was  required  of  him  now 
—  valiant  action  among  lady-killing  men. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  he  and  Dorothy  returned 
home.  They  ascended  the  stairs  silently  together;  hi 
front  of  her  door  Dorothy  said,  "  Good-night." 

"Dorothy!" 

The  note  of  strained  appeal  in  his  voice  arrested  her, 
and  she  turned.  He  stood  with  one  hand  pressed  against 
the  door  jamb  above  his  head. 

"Dorothy,  are  you  never  again  to  be  my  wife?" 

"You  know  what  my  wishes  are  —  what  my  deter- 
mination is." 

"You  won't  change?" 

"I  can't." 

[    343    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"If  I  don't  ask  now  for  more  than  a  little  affection  — 
the  display  of  it  — 

"So  that  you  can  kiss  me  —  take  me  in  your  arms?" 

"Yes.  I  love  you." 

Distress  was  visible  in  her  gray  eyes.  Her  fingers 
plucked  nervously  at  the  pearls  of  her  necklace.  Then 
she  exclaimed,  — 

"Oh,  George,  why  don't  you  divorce  me?  I  know  I'm 
not  a  good  wife.  You  'd  be  happier  to  be  free  of  me.  We 
should  both  be  happier." 

He  grew  pale. 

"But  I  don't  intend  to  divorce  you,  Dorothy.  And 
neither  do  I  intend  to  give  you  any  grounds  for  divorce." 

"Most  men  in  your  position  would  feel  justified  in 
consoling  themselves  with  other  women.  I  should  not 
blame  you." 

"  I  want  no  other  woman  than  my  wife." 

"I'm  sorry,  George;  I'm  truly  sorry.  I  realize  how 
deeply  I've  wronged  you  —  how  I  am  wronging  you. 
But  I  can  only  let  you  recover  your  freedom;  if  you 
reject  that  —  "  She  made  a  gesture  of  hopelessness. 

"I  do.  My  only  weapons  are  patience  and  love. 
Good-night,  my  dear." 

He  went  into  his  room  and  a  moment  later  he  heard 
the  key  turn  in  her  door.  He  thought  that  she  might 
have  spared  him  that  —  to-night,  at  least. 

But,  indeed,  this  night  she  had  locked  herself  in  as  a 
protection  against  herself  even  more  than  against  him. 
It  was  the  first  night  in  a  long  time  that  he  had  touched 
her  heart,  and  her  first  impulse  had  been  to  show  a 
kinder  feeling  by  omitting  her  usual  precaution.  Then 
[  344  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

she  felt  sure  that  he  would  take  it  as  a  sign  of  relenting, 
perhaps  even  of  surrender  —  and  if  he  should  come  to 
her  in  the  dark  —  She  did  not  dare  to  trust  herself;  she 
locked  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

BETWEEN  MOTHER  AND  CHILD 

Ethe  spring  Dorothy  decided  that  she  would  not 
jpen  her  house  at  North  East  Harbor.  For  one 
reason,  she  felt  so  dependent  now  upon  motoring  that 
she  did  not  care  to  go  to  a  place  where  she  would  be 
deprived  of  the  recreation;  the  inhospitality  of  Mount 
Desert  Island  to  automobiles  seemed  to  her  archaic  and 
oppressive.  Moreover,  most  of  the  friends  with  whom 
she  played  bridge  and  exchanged  elaborate  entertain- 
ments had  houses  on  the  North  Shore;  there  was  more 
social  life  and  gayety  there  than  at  North  East,  where 
people  were  given  somewhat  ostentatiously,  as  Dorothy 
now  thought,  to  the  cultivation  of  simplicity.  And  she 
felt  that  she  must  not  allow  any  intermission  in  the  dis- 
tractions and  excitements  with  which  she  endeavored  to 
beguile  her  mind.  Swift  motion  had  become  a  necessity 
to  her;  without  the  daily  spin  hi  her  motor-car  she  suf- 
fered intolerably  from  restlessness.  She  tried  desperately 
to  fortify  herself  against  the  possibility  of  having  time 
in  which  to  think  about  her  life  —  whither  it  was  tend- 
ing; she  must  have  amusement  always;  speed  and  people 
and  dress  must  furnish  the  necessary  cycle;  she  must 
arrange  not  merely  to  avoid  loneliness,  but  to  evade 
those  quiet  intimacies  that  bring  the  real  self  to  the 
surface. 

The  reason  that  she  gave  her  friends  for  taking  a 
[    346    J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

house  at  Manchester  was  that  she  wanted  to  be  near 
George  —  so  that  he  might  run  down  from  Boston  now 
and  then  for  a  night  or  for  Sunday.  Secretly  she  ac- 
knowledged another  and  more  potent  motive  for  thus 
deserting  North  East  and  taking  up  her  abode  in  a  more 
accessible  spot.  Now  that  Sidney  Hanford  could  no 
longer  make  visits  to  her  house,  she  must  not  remove 
herself  to  a  point  from  which  it  would  be  difficult  if  not 
impossible  to  arrange  frequent  meetings  with  him. 

The  first  kiss  ,had  not  been  the  last.  Each  meeting 
set  the  two  aflame.  On  the  long  journey  to  New  York, 
when  the  train  was  drawing  into  the  station,  Dorothy 
found  herself  quivering,  shivering  with  eagerness  and 
delight;  meanwhile,  Sidney  pacing  by  the  gate  had 
already  her  fair  face  before  his  eyes.  And  when  the  gate 
slid  back  and  the  passengers  from  the  train  began  to 
stream  through,  Sidney,  tiptoeing,  swept  the  faces  with 
eager  gaze,  and  when  he  saw  Dorothy  in  the  distance 
and  caught  her  vivid  smile,  thrills  of  feeling  moved  in 
him  like  wind  in  the  grass,  and  he  stood  at  the  grating 
and  thought  how  wrong  it  was  that  he  should  have  to 
wait  for  her  to  come  to  him  —  that  he  could  not  run 
even  those  few  steps  forward  to  greet  the  woman  he 
loved. 

They  had  cast  aside  all  discretion;  they  lunched  to- 
gether, they  dined  together,  they  drove  in  the  Park  to- 
gether; and  in  the  spring  of  the  year  they  took  short 
motor  trips  up  the  Hudson.  Sidney  now  operated  a 
motor-car,  which  was  serviceable  in  providing  them 
with  opportunities  to  be  alone  together  and  unob- 
served. He  termed  his  prosperity  preposterous.  His 
[  347  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

novel  was  selling  in  prodigious  numbers;  the  play 
founded  on  it  was  the  success  of  the  season.  The  new 
novel,  for  which  the  publisher  was  clamoring,  was  nearly 
finished;  Sidney  had  read  it  piecemeal  to  Dorothy,  and 
she  was  sanguine  of  its  merit.  "Is  n't  it  absurd  for  me 
to  be  making  so  much  money!"  Sidney  said.  Dorothy 
felt  a  sort  of  motherly  tenderness  for  him  when  he  con- 
fided the  amount  of  his  earnings  to  her  —  showed  such 
naive  and  humorous  delight.  How  funny  he  was  to 
regard  such  sums  as  monumental! 

"Oh,  but  we  must  n't  go  on  like  this!"  she  often  said. 

"Oh,  but  we  can't  stop!  We  can't  stop!"  he  replied. 

She  did  not  always  have  to  go  to  New  York  to  see 
him.  Sometimes  their  rendezvous  was  in  Providence, 
sometimes  in  Worcester,  sometimes  in  one  of  the  small 
towns  nearer  Boston.  Never,  in  the  euphemistic  current 
phrase,  was  there  anything  wrong  in  their  conduct.  Of 
course,  the  time  came  when  Sidney  urged  that  they  run 
away  together.  She  refused  —  but  she  knew  that  her 
refusal  must  be  due  chiefly  to  lack  of  courage,  for  she 
felt  in  that  passionate  moment  that  should  he  propose  to 
make  her  his  mistress  she  would  not  resist.  Because  he 
did  not  propose  it  she  loved  him  with  a  greater  humility. 
She  felt  that  he  was  chivalrous  not  to  tempt  her  weak- 
ness. 

She  told  him  that  she  was  not  the  person  he  thought 
her;  that  if  he  knew  her  as  she  was  he  must  despise  her. 
For  instance,  she  was  not  a  good  mother.  Her  little  boy 
seemed  less  fond  of  her  than  of  his  nurse  and  his  French 
governess ;  and  certainly  he  had  much  more  affection  for 
his  father  than  for  her.  It  must  be  her  fault  that  it  was 
[  348  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

so.  She  knew  she  did  not  care  as  she  should  for  the  child. 
The  fact  that  he  liked  other  persons  better  than  herself 
had  chilled  her  feeling  for  him.  She  had  not  reared  him 
herself,  she  had  been  unwilling  to  submit  to  the  trouble, 
and  had  been  interested  in  other  things;  now,  when  she 
wanted  to  be  motherly  with  him,  she  did  not  know  how 
to  be.  Oh,  Sidney  did  not  realize  it,  but  she  was  a  horrid 
person;  she  must  be  when  even  her  own  child  did  not 
like  her,  and  when  that  fact  affected  her  attitude  towards 
her  own  child.  Perhaps  she  would  have  been  a  better 
mother  if  the  child  had  been  a  girl;  she  understood  girls 
better  than  little  boys  and  could  have  taken  more  inter- 
est from  the  start  —  but  her  husband  had  already 
seized  upon  the  boy,  to  mould  him  and  develop  him; 
had  taken  him  out  of  her  hands.  She  was  n't  blaming 
her  husband;  after  all,  it  was  her  fault;  she  had  n't  been 
a  good  mother  in  the  first  place. 

Her  self -accusations  merely  stirred  Sidney  to  confute 
them,  her  pathos  inspired  him  to  reassure  her.  He 
knew  what  a  warm  human  person  she  was ;  he  knew  that 
under  happier  auspices  no  woman  would  have  been  a 
better  mother.  She  found  that  she  loved  to  be  reassured 
and  consoled  by  him.  And  to  him  she  poured  out  all  the 
thoughts  that  at  other  times  she  strove  so  hard  to 
repress.  What  a  useless,  empty  life  she  led !  There  was 
not  one  real  thing  in  it  —  a  daily  routine  of  inanities. 
She  was  n't  of  use  to  her  husband,  to  her  child,  to  any 
one.  "To  me!"  cried  Sidney.  And  again  how  sweetly 
was  she  reassured  and  consoled!  Yes,  she  felt,  there  had 
entered  one  real  thing  into  her  life  —  this  love.  He  had 
drawn  from  her  —  she  would  not  say  inspiration,  she 
[  349  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

would  not  dare  to  dignify  anything  she  could  give  with 
that  grand  word  —  suggestion,  anyway,  stimulus;  and 
it  was  interchangeable;  it  flowed  from  him  to  her  as  well 
as  from  her  to  him. 

So  quickly  did  stolen  hours  steal  to  an  end!  So  brief 
were  the  meetings !  So  long  and  dreary  the  return  home ! 
Oh,  if  only  fate  had  been  kind  to  them  that  day  when 
first  they  met,  had  whispered  to  them  the  truth  about 
themselves,  how  happy  now  they  might  be! 

Sidney  grew  more  urgent,  more  insistent.  "If  you  can 
make  nothing  of  the  life  you  're  leading,  if  your  little  boy 
is  alienated  from  you  and  you  can't  reach  him  any  more, 
if  he 's  growing  up  to  be  his  father's  child  and  not  yours 
—  has  duty  so  powerful  a  claim?  If  a  mother  can't  in- 
fluence a  boy  in  his  early  years,  she  can  never  influence 
him;  he  can  never  really  be  hers.  Must  you  go  on,  from 
a  sense  of  duty,  in  a  life  you  abhor  —  a  life  that  recog- 
nizes duty  in  only  the  most  trifling  obligations,  expresses 
it  in  the  most  shallow  observances?  Give  it  all  up,  give 
up  riches  and  friends  and  everything;  come  with  me." 

"Oh,  it's  utterly  impossible." 

"It's  not  impossible  to  put  everything  you  have  into 
trust  for  your  son.  It's  not  impossible  to  sail  with  me 
to-morrow  from  New  York.  We  could  live  in  the  South 
Seas,  we  could  live  anywhere,  we  could  spend  a  year  or 
two  going  round  the  world.  Would  n't  it  be  filling  your 
deepest  duty  to  yourself  to  cast  off  a  life  that  has  been 
a  failure  and  a  futility?  You  ought  to  have  children 
who  would  love  you,  and  whom  you  would  love." 

"No.  I'm  not  a  good  mother." 

"You  would  be  —  you  could  be  —  in  ptber  circuni- 
[  850  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

stances.  You  would  be  a  good  wife  —  the  best  —  in 
other  circumstances.  Don't  you  know  what  a  good  wife 
you  would  be  to  me?" 

"Oh,  but  I  might  n't  be.  The  help  I  am  to  you  now 
—  perhaps  just  because  I  'm  not  all  yours  you  idealize 
me  —  and  so  I  help  you  a  little.  And  if  I  were  all  yours, 
you  would  very  soon  cease  to  idealize  me.  And  when 
that  happened  —  I  'd  be  of  use  to  you  no  longer." 

"It  would  n't  happen." 

"It  always  does." 

"I  should  give  my  whole  life  to  proving  the  con- 
trary." 

She  fell  back  on  the  old  formula:  "We  must  n't  talk 
like  this;  we  must  n't  have  such  thoughts." 

But  when  the  time  came  for  them  to  part,  she  re- 
sponded to  the  passion  of  his  embrace,  of  his  kisses. 

When  she  arrived  at  Manchester  that  evening,  she 
found  a  letter  from  Rosamond  Rappallo,  asking  if  she 
would  not  let  little  George  come  to  Sunset  Acres  for  a 
visit  —  a  long  visit.  "Bobby  says  he  wants  him  to  stay 
at  least  a  month  —  and  so  do  I,"  she  wrote.  "If  you 
would  make  us  a  visit  at  the  same  time,  how  delighted  I 
should  be !  But  I  suppose  there  is  no  chance  of  that  — 
such  a  busy  person !  Anyway,  could  n't  you  motor  up 
from  Manchester  with  little  George  and  spend  a  day  and 
a  night,  if  more  is  impossible?  The  sooner  you  and  he 
can  come,  the  better;  he  may  have  the  fun  of  seeing 
the  Red  and  Blue  armies;  we  are  quite  likely  to  be 
in  the  thick  of  the  fighting." 

This  reference  was  to  the  mimic  war  operations  in 
which  troops  of  the  regular  army  and  the  militia  were 
[  351  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

soon  to  be  engaged.  The  Red  army,  marching  from  a 
point  east  of  Worcester,  was  to  try  to  enter  Boston;  the 
Blue  army  was  charged  with  the  defense  of  the  city. 
Rosamond  mentioned  in  her  letter  that  Graham  had 
been  appointed  to  command  a  cavalry  corps  of  the 
Blues. 

Little  George's  joy  and  excitement  when  he  was  being 
prepared  for  the  expedition  were  not  to  be  restrained. 
He  danced  about  the  house,  he  jumped,  he  jigged  on  one 
foot;  such  a  display  of  animal  spirits  in  his  mother's  pres- 
ence was  unwonted.  Then  in  the  midst  of  his  excite- 
ment sad  news  was  broken  to  him ;  he  came  running  into 
his  mother's  dressing-room,  crying,  "Is  n't  Annie  going 
too,  mother?  Isn't  Ma'm'selle?"  At  confirmation  of 
the  report  that  Annie  and  Ma'm'selle  were  to  remain  at 
home,  all  his  joyousness  vanished,  his  face  clouded  over. 
"Are  n't  you  satisfied  to  go  with  me,  George?  "  Dorothy 
asked.  Oh,  yes,  but  he  knew  he  should  have  a  good  time 
at  Aunt  Rose's  house,  and  so  he  did  n't  want  to  get 
homesick  and  have  to  come  home.  And  he  knew  he 
should  n't  ever  get  homesick  if  Annie  and  Ma'm'selle 
were  there,  too. 

"I  count  for  nothing  with  him,"  Dorothy  thought. 
"I  am  nothing  to  him  —  except  an  ogre." 

She  did  not  pass  the  night  at  Rosamond's;  she 
stopped  only  for  luncheon,  and  after  it  she  bade  her  son 
good-bye.  To  do  it  she  interrupted  his  play ;  the  kiss 
he  gave  her  was  hasty,  unemotional,  cheerful,  and  he 
scampered  off  light-hearted. 

Not  so  did  Dorothy  depart.  With  her  it  was  an  axiom 
of  life  that  she  could  not  love  any  one  who  did  not  love 
[  352  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

her.  She  felt  that  she  would  love  her  child  if  only  he 
would  permit  it,  but  his  clear  unconcern  turned  her 
yearning  impulse  to  resentment.  Oh,  if  she  had  only 
made  him  love  her  as  a  baby !  Then  he  would  be  loving 
her  now.  But  there  was  no  sympathy  or  understanding 
between  them.  She  did  not  know  how  to  reach  him, 
how  to  pet  him  and  play  with  him  and  love  him.  She  did 
not  always  have  the  desire.  His  nervousness  annoyed 
her,  his  twitching  and  jumping  about;  she  could  not 
bear  a  nervous  child.  Yet  he  was  hers,  and  she  longed  to 
have  him  fill  the  place  in  her  heart  and  life  that  a 
woman's  child  should  hold.  Longing  and  resentment 
and  despair  —  from  one  mood  to  another  she  passed ; 
scorn  of  herself  and  hatred  of  the  life  she  had  for  years 
been  leading  flung  about  her  soul  stormy  clouds  through 
which  the  thought  of  Sidney  shone  steadily  like  a  star. 
Only  in  relation  to  him  could  she  see  herself  now  as  a 
normal  woman,  a  woman  whose  life  might  be  a  blessing 
instead  of  a  curse. 

In  the  little  boy's  absence,  all  the  moods  that  the 
thought  of  the  child  inspired  —  longing,  resentment, 
and  despair  —  seemed  rushing  to  some  culmination ;  she 
thought  she  must  be  going  insane.  Five  days  after  that 
on  which  she  had  bade  him  good-bye,  she  took  again  the 
long  motor  trip  to  Sunset  Acres.  Driving  up  the  avenue 
to  the  house,  she  saw  George  and  the  two  older  Rappallo 
boys  at  play  in  the  orchard.  She  waved  to  them;  when 
she  got  out  of  the  car,  George  came  running  up,  his  face 
full  of  apprehension  and  distress,  and  without  waiting 
for  her  to  speak,  cried  out,  "Oh,  mother,  mother,  you've 
not  come  to  take  me  home!" 

[    353    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

Dorothy  stooped  and  kissed  him,  but  in  that  moment 
affection  was  dead  in  her  heart.  "No,  George,"  she 
said,  "  I  've  not  come  to  take  you  home.  Go  back  to  your 
play." 

To  Rosamond  she  recounted  with  a  laugh  the  manner 
of  his  greeting,  and  Rosamond,  detecting  nothing  be- 
neath the  surface,  laughed,  too. 

"They're  all  so  excited  there's  no  holding  them,"  she 
said.  "The  guns  have  been  booming  all  the  morning 
over  towards  Wroxby.  A  regiment  of  Blues  passed  an 
hour  ago;  I've  told  the  boys  that  we  may  be  surrounded 
by  the  enemy  before  night,  and  that  father  is  out  fight- 
ing hi  defense  of  home  and  fireside,  and  though  they 
know  that  is  n't  literally  true,  it 's  true  enough  to  give 
them  the  greatest  thrills  they  've  ever  had.  They  climb 
one  tree  after  another,  trying  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
battle." 

"Of  course  a  mere  mother  can't  compete  with  any 
such  attraction,"  said  Dorothy. 

But  it  made  little  difference  what  the  excuse  might  be. 
The  boy's  behavior  was  entirely  in  keeping  with  his 
general  attitude  towards  her.  So  again  was  his  eager- 
ness that  afternoon  to  be  done  with  the  tiresome  busi- 
ness of  saying  good-bye. 


CHAPTER  XL 

O  GLORIOUS,   DECISIVE  NOON! 

THAT  night  Dorothy  played  bridge  until  a  late  hour; 
she  slept  until  a  late  hour  the  next  morning.  When 
she  awoke  it  was  with  a  consciousness  of  some  depress- 
ing occurrence;  then  she  remembered  the  effect  produced 
upon  her  by  her  little  boy's  greeting  and  farewell.  A 
black  melancholy  settled  upon  her  spirits.  Her  child 
might  as  well  be  a  changeling.  Soon  he  would  be  going  to 
school,  and  the  slight  hold  that  she  had  upon  his  interest 
would  be  still  further  loosened.  And  then,  if  his  father 
carried  out  his  plans,  little  George  would  go  away  to 
boarding-school,  and  that  would  complete  the  alienation. 
After  that  they  would  be  strangers  to  each  other,  for  the 
rest  of  their  lives.  Oh,  if  she  had  only  taken  advantage 
of  those  first  few,  baby  years!  Her  life  in  and  for  her 
child  was  over  before  it  had  fairly  been  begun.  And  the 
only  child  that  she  should  ever  have!  Worthless,  useless 
woman  that  she  was! 

She  could  not  lie  all  day  bemoaning  her  wretchedness. 
Sunshine  drew  her  out  of  doors;  the  scents  and  colors  of 
the  garden  were  a  temporary  opiate.  The  sea,  placid  and 
blue,  stretched  out  from  the  foot  of  her  cliff,  against 
which  its  bosom  heaved  slumberously.  It  was  no  day  for 
sails,  but  little  motor-boats  were  streaking  along  the 
shore  and  a  canoe  with  barearmed  paddlers  dipped 
gracefully  in  the  soft-rolling  waves.  On  the  beach 
[  355  1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

beyond  the  cliff  bathers  were  scattered;  Dorothy  deter- 
mined to  join  them. 

A  few  strokes  in  the  cold  water  had  a  tonic  effect  so 
far  as  her  body  was  concerned.  She  no  longer  felt  list- 
less and  languid.  Walking  up  from  the  bath-house  she 
decided  that  she  must  get  some  tennis  or  some  golf  in 
the  afternoon ;  she  would  call  up  Marion  Wales. 

1  Her  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating,  and  then  it  began 
to  pound  with  a  violence  that  robbed  her  whole  body  of 
strength  and  left  her  faint  and  trembling.  There  on  the 
driveway  at  the  side  of  the  house  stood  Sidney's  motor- 
car. The  New  York  number  on  it  identified  it  for  her. 
Still  faint  and  trembling  she  came  out  upon  the  drive- 
way just  as  Sidney  made  his  appearance  round  the  cor- 
ner of  the  house. 

"Hello!"  he  called.  "They  told  me  you'd  gone  down 
to  the  beach;  I  was  just  starting  out  to  look  for  you." 
Then,  when  he  drew  near,  he  said  in  a  low,  excited  voice, 
"Take  me  where  no  one  will  see  us  —  where  I  can  talk 
with  you." 

She  led  him  down  among  the  rocks  to  a  cleft  in  which 
they  could  be  overlooked  by  no  one,  except  from  the  sea. 
And  now,  except  for  boats  far  out,  the  sea  was  deserted. 
At  once  he  had  her,  unresisting,  in  his  arms. 

"I  had  to  come,"  he  said.  "I  could  n't  endure  it  any 
longer,  away  from  you.  Yesterday  at  noon  I  left  New 
York.  I  drove  my  motor  —  simply  to  keep  mind  and 
hands  occupied.  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  we  can't  go  on 
living  as  we  are.  Come  away  with  me  to-day  —  now! 
I've  come  for  you  —  I've  come  for  you,  my  love!" 

She  felt  the  quivering  tension  of  his  strong  arms  about 
[    356    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

her;  the  passionate  trembling  murmur  of  his  voice  in  her 
ear  drew  from  her  all  the  will  to  resist.  In  its  place 
sprang  to  full  stature  passion  equal  to  his  own. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  she  gave  herself  up  to  a  delicious 
ecstasy  of  weakness  in  that  straining,  quivering  em- 
brace. "Yes.  I  will  come." 

They  mounted  the  path  up  from  the  rocks,  clinging 
each  to  the  other's  hand,  looking  each  into  the  other's 
face  with  radiant  eyes.  His  love  for  her,  her  love  for  him, 
wiped  out  all  sense  of  guilt.  The  serene  blue  sky  brooded 
over  them  with  its  blessing;  when  they  entered  the 
woodland  path,  the  thrushes  in  the  trees  strewed  the 
leafy  aisles  with  music  of  rejoicing;  when  they  emerged 
into  the  garden,  the  flowers  lifted  up  their  faces  to  shine 
upon  them.  O  glorious,  decisive  noon! 

Sidney  was  ready  to  crank  the  engine  of  his  motor  at 
once. 

"Oh,  heedless  Lochinvar!"  She  laughed.  "I  must  be 
the  practical  one;  that  I  see.  Now,  listen.  You  will 
lunch  with  me,  and  will  hear  that  I  have  to  go  to 
Boston  for  the  night,  and  as  you  are  going,  too,  you  will 
offer  me  transportation.  I  shall  have  a  bag  packed,  and 
we  shall  take  our  departure  in  good  order.  Is  n't  that 
wise?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  admiring  her  coolness.  "My  one  idea 
was  to  escape  with  you  as  soon  as  possible.  It  has  been 
my  one  idea,  driving  all  the  way  from  New  York." 

"How  did  you  know  I  would  come?" 

"I  did  n't  know  —  but  I  felt  you  would,  I  hoped  you 
would." 

"And  if  I  had  n't?" 

[    357    1 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"Then  I  should  have  gone  away  forever.  My  mind 
was  all  made  up.  It  had  to  be  the  one  thing  or  the  other. 
Oh,  how  wonderful  that  you  should  have  given  me  hap- 
piness ! " 

"Oh,  Sidney,  it  will  be  wonderful  to  be  happy!" 

She  looked  at  him  demurely  at  luncheon,  talking  of 
her  summer  amusements,  questioning  him  about  his 
writing.  The  last  meal  that  she  should  ever  eat  under 
the  solemn  auspices  of  Richards  —  well,  she  would  send 
him  and  the  others  substantial  tokens  of  her  kind 
remembrance. 

After  luncheon,  while  her  maid  was  packing  a  bag,  she 
looked  about  her  room  to  be  sure  that  she  should  leave 
behind  nothing  that  she  especially  prized.  On  her 
dressing-table  in  a  silver  frame  was  a  photograph  of  her 
little  boy;  Dorothy  slipped  the  picture  into  the  bag. 
She  had  an  odd  momentary  feeling  that  she  would  like 
to  take  a  photograph  of  her  husband,  too;  after  all,  he 
had  been  kind  to  her.  Then  she  smiled  at  the  absurd 
impulse. 

She  had  no  more  regret  at  separating  herself  finally 
and  forever  from  her  old  life  than  has  a  snake  at  slough- 
ing off  its  old  skin.  Later,  perhaps,  she  might  awaken 
to  remorse,  but  now  her  mind  floated  in  a  sea  of  eager, 
exultant  happiness;  she  saw  herself  flying  over  the 
world  with  her  lover,  nestling  close  to  his  side. 

So,  indeed,  she  soon  was  flying.  She  was  aware  that 
she  had  passed  out  of  the  gate  for  the  last  time.  They 
were  speeding  along  the  road,  facing  the  world  together 
—  a  hostile  world  it  would  be,  but  what  matter  since 
they  faced  it  together? 

[    358    1 


THE   WOMEN   WE   MARRY 

"I  looked  at  the  clock  in  the  hall  when  I  came  down 
the  stairs,"  she  said.  "It  was  exactly  three  o'clock  when 
we  began  our  new  life." 

Presently  she  asked,  "Where  are  we  going,  Sidney?" 

He  gave  her  a  laughing  glance.  "I'm  taking  the  only 
road  I  know.  Back  to  Boston.  Then  I  thought  we'd 
turn  off  and  make  for  Worcester.  We  can  pass  the  night 
there  and  get  an  early  start  for  New  York  in  the  morn- 
ing. And  then  what  shall  it  be  —  Europe,  Africa,  South 
America?" 

"Europe  first.  —  Oh,  Sidney,  does  it  frighten  you  to 
think  what  we  've  done?  " 

"It  makes  me  wildly  happy.  I  feel  that  in  the  words 
of  the  song,  the  world  is  all  at  my  feet." 

"  To-morrow,  Sidney,  do  you  think  we  shall  feel  it  is 
all  on  our  backs?" 

"Shoulder  to  shoulder,  aren't  we  strong  enough  to 
bear  it,  Dorothy?" 

"Oh,  yes,  —  when  you  speak  like  that!" 

"You  did  n't  doubt  that  I  should  speak  like  that?" 

"I  hoped  you  would.  But  it  frightened  me  suddenly 
to  think  that  coming  to  you  in  this  way  I  bring  you  so 
little,  Sidney,  —  and  I  take  you  from  so  much ! " 

"You  bring  me  your  help  and  your  love;  you  take  me 
from  nothing  that  I  value  in  this  world." 

"Oh,  Sidney,  is  that  true?" 

"Yes,  it's  true.  And  let  us  not  ask  any  more  morbid 
questions.  We've  done  it  with  open  eyes  and  a  whole 
heart  —  and  we  're  glad,  Dorothy,  —  we  're  glad." 

•With  his  free  hand  he  gripped  and  held  her  fingers 
tight,  and  she  answered  to  the  pressure. 
[    359    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "we're  glad." 

And  yet,  though  they  spoke  thus  and  clung  to  each 
other,  each  wondered  what  might  be  the  other's  thoughts 
and  feared  to  know. 

Sidney  drove  fast  —  drove  truly  as  one  fleeing.  When 
they  sped  by  other  automobiles  on  the  road,  Dorothy 
dropped  her  head,  drew  the  veil  more  thickly  over  her 
face,  and  felt  nearly  every  time  that  in  spite  of  her  pre- 
cautions she  had  been  identified.  "Why  should  I 
care?"  she  thought.  "By  to-morrow  or  the  next  day 
every  one  will  know."  But  that  impulse  to  duck  and 
dodge  and  hide  —  it  was  hateful.  How  much  better 
when  flight  should  be  an  accomplished  fact,  and  she 
should  have  that  impulse  no  longer,  but  instead  of  it  the 
impulse  and  the  strength  to  hold  her  head  high  and  defy 
the  world ! 

Through  Beverly  and  Salem  and  Lynn  they  sped,  and 
came  out  upon  the  road  across  the  Lynn  marshes.  Here 
upon  this  straight  and  level  stretch,  Sidney  gave  his  car 
full  speed.  The  sun,  standing  over  the  distant  border  of 
woods,  shot  with  golden  gleams  the  pools  and  rivulets 
that  fluttered  by;  its  beams  glanced  from  the  shoulders 
of  the  haycocks.  The  salt  wind  dampened  Dorothy's 
face  under  her  veil.  Never  before  had  she  been  driven 
so  fast.  The  sense  of  peril  in  such  wild  rushing  through 
space  exhilarated  her  and  set  free  from  its  last  tether  the 
spirit  of  recklessness.  After  all,  what  if  anything  did 
happen?  If  they  were  killed  the  next  moment,  it  might 
be  as  well. 

But  they  came  safely  to  the  end  of  the  marshes  and 
entered  at  a  reduced  speed  the  outlying  suburbs  of  the 
[  360  1 


THE   WOMEN   WE   MARRY 

city.  In  a  few  minutes  more  Sidney  was  steering  his  way 
through  mean  and  crowded  streets. 

"I  don't  know  why,"  he  said,  "but  I  feel  that  I  want 
to  get  you  out  of  Boston  as  quickly  as  possible." 

She  shared  his  desire  and  drew  her  veil  again  closely 
over  her  face. 

He  had  to  stop  at  a  garage  to  replenish  his  supply  of 
gasoline.  While  they  waited  a  newsboy  passed;  Dorothy 
called  to  him.  With  the  newspaper  in  her  hand  she 
turned  to  Sidney  and  smiled. 

"I  wanted  to  be  sure  they  haven't  got  the  news 
about  us  yet,"  she  said. 

Sidney  laughed.   "They  could  n't  possibly  have  it." 

She  opened  the  newspaper  and  the  next  moment  gave 
a  low  exclamation  of  pain. 

"Oh,  Sidney!  How  frightful !" 

He  looked  over  her  shoulder,  incredulous. 

"No,  nothing  about  us.  Graham  Rappallo  —  Rosa- 
mond's husband  —  his  horse  rolled  on  him ;  he 's  dying." 

The  gasoline  tank  was  filled,  the  man  cranked  the 
engine,  but  Sidney  waited  to  let  Dorothy  read  on.  In  a 
moment  she  passed  the  newspaper  to  him. 

It  had  been  the  one  serious  casualty  of  the  early 
morning  battle  between  the  Reds  and  the  Blues.  Lead- 
ing a  cavalry  charge  Graham  had  spurred  his  horse  to  a 
reckless  jump  over  a  wall,  where  the  ground  fell  away  on 
the  farther  side ;  alighting,  the  animal  had  stumbled  and 
fallen,  crushing  his  rider  beneath  him.  Graham  had 
been  taken  unconscious  to  his  house  near  by;  his  skull 
was  fractured,  and  he  had  other  injuries  of  which  the 
full  seriousness  was  as  yet  undetermined. 
[  361  ] 


THE   WOMEN.  WE  MARRY 

"Too  bad."  Sidney  returned  the  newspaper  to  Doro- 
thy and  threw  in  the  clutch;  they  moved  on.  "I  re- 
member his  wife;  you  know  I  met  her  the  day  that  I 
first  saw  you,  Dorothy." 

She  was  silent;  tears  came  suddenly  to  her  eyes. 

"My  little  boy  is  there,"  she  said  at  last.  "Oh, 
Sidney,  I  must  go  to  Rosamond." 

"Now!"  Remonstrance  more  than  question  was  in 
his  voice. 

"Oh,  yes,  Sidney,  now.  If  you  knew  how  Rosamond 
came  to  me  in  London  when  my  father  died  — !  She  may 
need  me,  she  may  want  me  —  and  with  my  little  boy 
there !  Anyway,  I  must  go  to  her  now,  Sidney." 

They  had  turned  into  Commonwealth  Avenue;  Sidney 
stopped  his  car.  They  looked  at  each  other  with  distress 
in  their  eyes. 

"How  can  I  let  you  go,  Dorothy!" 

"  How  can  I  stay  away !  And  how  could  I  go  off  now 
with  you,  Sidney,  and  be  happy  —  thinking  of  Rosa- 
mond!" 

"Surely  you  can  do  no  good  by  going  to  her!" 

"Perhaps  not,  and  yet  I  must  go." 

"Dorothy,  dearest,  don't  you  love  me  still?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Sidney,  I  do  love  you.  But  don't  you  see 
that  I  must  go?" 

"I  will  take  you  wherever  you  say.  Only  tell  me 
again  that  you  love  me." 

"I  love  you." 

"And  this  —  this  interruption  isn't  going  to  make 
any  difference  —  any  real  difference?" 

"Oh,  no.  It's  only  a  postponement,  Sidney." 
[    362    1 


^  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

"Yes,  only  a  postponement.  Let  it  be  a  short  one  — 
oh,  such  a  short  one!" 

"And  now  we  must  go  on.   I  will  tell  you  the  road." 

He  drove  now  at  reduced  speed  while  he  urged  her  to 
make  plans.  If  she  found  she  could  be  of  no  service,  of 
no  comfort,  what  should  she  do?  Would  n't  she  simply 
take  the  child  back  to  Manchester  —  and  then  embark 
immediately  upon  a  second  flight?  He  would  meet  her 
in  Boston  or  wherever  she  should  determine. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said.  "I  can  make  no  plans.  If 
Graham  is  dying, — I  could  n't  go  away.  I  should  have  to 
stay  and  try  to  be  of  help  to  Rosamond.  No,  Sidney,  we 
can  make  no  plans  now.  We  must  be  content  to  wait." 

"I  could  wait  contentedly,"  said  Sidney,  "but  I  am 
afraid  now  that  you  will  never  come." 

The  foreboding  in  his  voice  oppressed  her. 

"Why  should  I  not?"  she  asked. 

But  in  spite  of  her  brave  question,  into  her,  too,  the 
spirit  of  foreboding  had  entered. 

Silence  fell ;  they  came  out  into  the  country  again.  At 
last  Sidney  spoke.  "I  shall  wait  in  Boston  for  word 
from  you  —  no,  I  shall  wait  in  Boston  for  you.  Write  to 
me  at  the  Touraine.  I  shall  wait,  whether  it's  days  or 
weeks  or  months." 

"I  will  write,"  she  answered  in  her  low  voice.  "I  will 
write  to  you  soon." 

They  came  to  a  lonely  bit  of  road,  with  neither  houses 
nor  travelers  in  sight.  Sidney  stopped  the  automobile, 
clasped  Dorothy  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  murmur- 
ing, "Oh,  my  own!  Forever  my  own!  Oh,  remember, 
dearest,  nothing  can  ever  part  us!" 
[  363  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

She  begged  him  to  cease.  "Some  one  may  come." 

"But  kiss  me,  dearest,  —  one  kiss." 

He  reproached  her  for  a  lack  of  warmth  in  it  when  it 
was  bestowed. 

"Oh,  I  can't  help  it,  Sidney."  Her  voice  broke.  "I 
am  thinking  of  Rosamond." 

He  bowed  his  head.  "I'm  selfish.  Try  to  forgive 
me." 

Arriving  at  the  top  of  a  hill,  they  came  suddenly 
upon  a  view  of  an  armed  encampment  —  tents  pitched 
in  meadows,  soldiers  drilling,  and  sentries  posted  by 
the  roadside.  These  halted  the  automobile.  "No  pass- 
ing through  the  lines,"  said  one  of  the  khaki-clad 
young  men. 

Sidney  glanced  at  the  blue  band  on  his  hat. 

"This  lady  is  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Rappallo's.  Mr.  Rap- 
pallo  was  dangerously  hurt  this  morning,  as  you  prob- 
ably know.  She  must  go  to  her  at  once." 

"Then  I  think  it  can  be  arranged." 

The  sentry  accompanied  them  to  the  camp  head- 
quarters where,  after  making  a  brief  explanation,  they 
obtained  a  pass  from  the  commanding  officer.  As  they 
proceeded  on  their  way  the  sound  of  cannonading  came 
to  their  ears,  and  just  before  reaching  the  Rappallo 
place  they  encountered  another  outpost  of  the  Blues. 
Sidney  displayed  the  pass  and  sped  on. 

He  drove  through  the  gateway  of  Sunset  Acres  and  up 
the  avenue.  He  stopped  his  car,  caught  Dorothy's 
hand,  and  said,  "Don't  keep  me  waiting  —  write  to  me 
—  come  to  me  soon ! " 

Dorothy  pressed  his  hand  and  stepped  from  the  car. 
[  364  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

Her  husband  stood  on  the  piazza  before  her.  In  the 
sudden  shock  of  the  encounter  she  turned  white  and 
faint.  "George!"  she  said,  and  could  say  no  more;  he 
met  her  on  the  steps,  took  her  hand,  and  glanced  beyond 
her  at  Sidney.  With  a  bitter  sense  of  shame  and  defeat, 
Sidney  pulled  the  lever;  as  he  made  the  turn  round  the 
circle  of  grass  he  saw  George  Brandon  with  his  arm 
about  Dorothy  helping  her  to  mount  the  steps. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

THE  WHEEL  HAS  COME  FULL  CIRCLE 

I  DID  N'T  know  you  were  here,  George." 
Dorothy,  taking  off  her  veil  in  the  hall,  struggled 
to  regain  self-control. 

"Rosamond  telephoned  for  me  at  six  this  morning.  I 
have  been  here  ever  since." 

"Will  he  die?"  she  whispered. 

"I  don't  know.  I  had  to  trepan;  it's  very  seri- 
ous." 

"Poor  Rosamond!" 

"She's  brave  —  one  of  the  bravest.  But  I'm  glad 
you've  come;  I  think  you  can  help  her." 

"I  felt  I  must,  at  least,  come  and  take  George 
away  — " 

"  You  might  take  away  the  other  children,  too,  if  she 
will  consent.  The  less  excitement  hi  and  about  the 
house  now  the  better.  If  we  can  get  through  to-night, 
with  these  damnable  guns  going  off  — " 

Rosamond  came  down  the  stairs,  and  Dorothy  went 
to  her  with  outstretched  arms. 

George  left  them  alone  together;  they  sat  side  by  side 
on  a  sofa,  clinging  to  each  other,  talking  in  low  voices, 
now  and  then  brushing  away  tears. 

"I  felt  I  must  hurry  to  you,  Rosamond,"  Dorothy 
said.    "I  wanted  to  help  in  any  way  I  could  —  and  I 
did  n't  want  to  let  my  child  be  a  burden  to  you  for  an- 
[    366    1 


THE   WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

other  minute.  Would  n't  it  truly  be  more  comfortable 
for  you  if  I  took  him  away  to-night?" 

"Oh,  no,  Dorothy;  stay  with  me  to-night!"  Rosa- 
mond entreated.  "Stay  with  me,  do." 

So  Dorothy  stayed;  she  shared  Rosamond's  bed  and 
'during  much  of  the  night  held  her  in  her  arms.  Early  in 
the  evening  the  sound  of  the  guns  ceased ;  presently  de- 
tachments of  infantry  hurried  by  along  the  road  in  the 
moonlight,  and  a  field  battery  rumbled  past.  After  that 
there  was  peace  and  quiet  out  of  doors.  Not  until  the 
dawn  was  the  sound  of  the  guns  again  heard,  and  then 
it  was  faint  and  distant;  the  Blues  had  been  in  retreat  all 
night,  the  Reds  had  advanced  several  miles  to  a  new 
position  of  attack. 

But  the  stillness  of  the  night  only  emphasized  by  con- 
trast the  uneasy  activities,  the  disquieting  noises  within. 
Nurses  tiptoeing  through  the  halls,  movements  of  per- 
sons in  another  room,  the  delirious  babble  that  rose 
often  to  a  shout  —  Rosamond's  closed  door  did  not  bar 
these  sounds.  When  the  delirium  was  at  its  worst, 
Dorothy  clasped  Rosamond  more  tightly,  held  her 
hands,  and  did  not  speak.  Rosamond  lay  trembling, 
silent.  At  last  quiet  fell  upon  the  house.  Then  Rosa- 
mond clutched  Dorothy's  arm  and  said,  "Oh,  Dorothy, 
you  don't  suppose  he's  died?" 

"No,  Rosamond,  dear,  no.  I  will  see  George  and  tell 
you  what  he  says." 

In  her  dressing-gown  and  slippers  she  moved  along  the 
hall  and  entered  George's  room.  He  was  lying  on  the 
bed  fully  dressed;  he  was  awake.  In  reply  to  her  ques- 
tion he  said,  "Graham  is  sleeping  now.  His  pulse  is 
[  367  1 


stronger.  Tell  Rosamond  she  can  feel  hopeful;  let  her 
go  to  sleep." 

Dorothy  returned  with  the  message. 

"Oh,  I  will  try,"  said  Rosamond.  "Thank  you, 
Dorothy,  dear."  She  added  after  a  moment,  "If  I  were 
only  like  the  boys!  Poor  little  chaps,  they've  been  so 
frightened  all  day;  they've  cried  so  hard.  But  when 
they  had  said  their  prayers  to-night,  they  were  sure  all 
would  be  well;  they  closed  their  eyes  happily." 

"All  will  be  well,"  said  Dorothy. 

And  presently  she  knew  that  Rosamond  was  asleep. 

In  the  stillness  and  darkness,  Dorothy's  imagination 
became  active;  it  presented  her  husband,  grave  and 
intent,  bending  with  his  knife  over  the  wounded  head; 
so  vivid  was  the  picture  that  she  clenched  her  hands  and 
compressed  her  lips.  It  faded  and  left  her  feeling  awe 
of  her  husband,  and  pride  in  him,  and  sorrow  for  him; 
if  only  he  had  Sidney's  hair  and  voice  and  eyes,  Sidney's 
charm  and  Sidney's  smile,  Sidney's  confiding,  whining 
nature,  —  if  only  Sidney  and  he  were  one!  Couldn't 
they,  somehow,  fuse  into  one  person  and  be  her  husband, 
—  could  n't  they  —  would  n't  they  — ? 

She  was  awakened  by  sunshine  to  the  singing  of  the 
meadow-larks. 

Graham's  condition  was  still  precarious.  He  had 
waked  from  sleep,  not  to  delirium,  but  to  a  clouded 
mind.  "That's  to  be  expected  for  a  time,"  George  said 
to  Rosamond.  "He's  holding  his  own  anyway,  and  I 
hope  that  soon  there  may  be  some  positive  gain."  But 
to  Dorothy  he  admitted  that  his  dread  for  Graham  was 
of  something  worse  than  death. 
[  368  ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Dorothy  in  anguish. 

"I  hope  not,"  George  said.  "In  such  a  case  it's 
impossible  to  predict.  I  hope  not." 

Rosamond  parted  with  her  children  willingly  when 
George  told  her  it  would  be  to  the  advantage  of  the 
patient  to  have  them  out  of  the  house  for  a  time.  She 
was  grateful  to  Dorothy  for  offering  to  take  them,  sorry 
to  let  Dorothy  go.  "But  you've  helped  me  through  my 
worst  time,  Dorothy,"  she  said.  "I  shall  be  braver 
now." 

Bobby  and  Alexander  were  not  in  the  least  surprised 
to  hear  that  their  father  was  better;  they  and  David, 
too,  were  thrilled  with  excitement  at  being  got  ready  for 
a  visit  with  Aunt  Dorothy.  Little  George  also  was  ex- 
cited and  went  jumping  and  hopping  about,  not  at  all 
reluctant  to  be  returning  home  in  such  company. 

"I  will  telephone  you  every  day  about  the  children," 
Dorothy  said  to  Rosamond.  "And,  oh,  I  hope  I  shall 
hear  nothing  but  good  news  of  Graham." 

The  two  women  kissed  and  parted ;  Rosamond's  hazel 
eyes,  Dorothy's  gray  eyes  were  alike  shining  with  tears. 

Passing  through  Boston  with  the  four  children,  Doro- 
thy thought  of  Sidney,  waiting  at  the  Touraine  for  news 
of  her.  She  thought  of  him  with  no  desire  to  telephone 
to  him,  to  hear  his  voice,  or  to  see  him.  The  emotional 
stress  of  the  last  twenty -four  hours  had  worn  upon  her; 
she  was  tired :  and  she  felt  the  responsibilities  with  which 
she  had  charged  herself.  But  she  supposed  that  soon  the 
need  of  Sidney's  love,  of  Sidney's  companionship,  would 
reenter  her  life.  Her  listlessness  and  distaste  at  the 
thought  showed  her  how  tired  she  was. 
[  369  1 


THE  WOMEN   WE   MARRY 

She  tried  earnestly  in  the  days  that  followed  to  fill  a 
mother's  place  to  the  four  children.  She  submitted 
humbly  to  be  taught  how  to  play  the  games  that  Rosa- 
mond played  with  them.  And  taking  part  in  the  games, 
and  watching  the  children  at  play,  she  came  to  have  a 
better  appreciation,  a  better  understanding  of  her  own 
little  boy.  He  was  quick,  he  had  spirit,  he  was  affection- 
ately responsive  when  she  entered  into  his  imaginative 
games.  And  each  night  she  went  from  one  bed  to  an- 
other, hearing  each  little  soul  say  his  prayers  —  hearing 
each  small  Rappalloend  his  petition  thus:  "And,  God, 
please  make  my  daddy  well  and  strong  again";  hearing 
her  own  small  George  echo  the  appeal:  "And,  God, 
please  make  Bobby's  daddy  well  and  strong  again." 

Over  the  telephone  Rosamond's  voice  sounded  now 
disheartened,  now  hopeful.  After  the  first  three  days 
she  had  ceased  to  fear  for  Graham's  life,  but  it  was  plain 
that  the  other  dread  had  entered  her  heart.  George, 
however,  to  whom  Dorothy  telephoned  daily,  thought 
that  the  outlook  was  growing  more  favorable,  that 
Graham's  mental  condition  showed  steady  improve- 
ment. He  admitted  apprehension  lest  the  improvement 
might  continue  merely  to  a  certain  point  and  then  cease. 

Anyway,  the  children  played  untroubled  and  un- 
doubting.  Dorothy  sat  on  the  beach  one  morning  while 
near  by  they  were  busily  employed  in  their  several  en- 
terprises. Bobby  and  George  were  building  a  sand  fort; 
Alexander  was  experimenting  with  some  bits  of  drift- 
wood, interested  to  discover  that  as  often  as  they  were 
launched  the  sea  persisted  in  returning  them  to  the 
sand;  David  pattered  about  collecting  shells  and  bring- 
[  370  1 


THE  WOMEN   WE   MARRY 

ing  them  to  Dorothy.  Presently,  down  near  the  edge  of 
the  water,  he  stepped  on  a  sharp  one  that  cut  his  little 
bare  foot  and  caused  him  to  set  up  a  wail.  Bobby 
sprang  from  his  fort-building  and  ran  to  comfort  him; 
he  put  his  arm  round  David  and  led  him  sobbing  to 
Dorothy. 

"It  won't  hurt  him  long,  will  it,  Aunt  Dorothy?" 
Bobby  said  earnestly,  while  David  held  up  his  pink  toes 
for  inspection. 

"No,  only  a  moment,"  Dorothy  answered,  and  she 
wiped  the  little  foot  with  her  handkerchief  and  held  it 
soothingly. 

David  with  a  contented  sigh  dropped  down  and  put 
his  head  on  her  lap;  Bobby  stooped  and  patted  his 
brother's  cheek,  and  then  went  back  to  his  play.  Sud- 
denly another  little  figure  plumped  on  the  sand  beside 
Dorothy,  another  curly  head  was  burrowing  in  her  lap; 
it  was  her  own  little  son.  She  stroked  the  two  heads  and 
caressed  the  soft  necks,  and  soon  both  little  boys  were 
asleep. 

Dorothy  sat  very  still  in  order  not  to  disturb  them, 
and  while  she  sat  thus,  listening  to  their  soft  breathing, 
hearing  the  gentle  intermittent  sounds  of  the  activities 
of  the  other  two  boys,  there  seemed  to  be  a  new  birth  of 
tenderness  in  her  heart.  She  thought  of  Bobby  running 
to  David's  aid,  and  felt  she  would  like  to  see  her  own 
little  boy  so  run  to  help  a  younger  brother;  she  felt,  too, 
that  little  George  would  always  respond  to  such  a  call 
with  eagerness  and  affection  —  that  perhaps  some 
vague  craving  of  his  heart  had  sent  him  to  her  now  to 
snuggle  his  head  in  her  lap  along  with  David's.  Perhaps 
[  371  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

a  boy  who  never  had  a  brother  or  a  sister  was  likely  to 
grow  up  without  developing  to  the  full  possibilities  of 
his  nature,  perhaps  some  of  his  best  qualities  would  be 
stunted  and  starved  through  no  fault  of  his  own;  per- 
haps even  his  capacity  for  usefulness  as  a  man  might  be 
dwarfed  by  the  lonely  egotism  enforced  upon  him  in 
childhood.  She  tried  to  look  ahead  along  the  years  — 
her  son's  years,  not  her  own.  The  letter  that  she  had 
received  that  morning  from  Sidney  stirred  now  no 
ardent  thoughts. 

She  wrote  to  him:  "The  course  that  I  should  have  pur- 
sued from  a  sense  of  duty  is  mine  now  by  inclination.  I 
cannot  explain  to  you  how  this  has  come  about;  indeed, 
I  hardly  know.  But  what  I  have  found  is  that  my  little 
boy  means  more  to  me  than  you  do.  Perhaps  I  shall  yet 
find  that  my  husband  means  more  to  me  than  you  do.  I 
hope  it  may  be  so.  But  even  if  it  should  be  otherwise, 
our  intercourse,  Sidney,  is  forever  at  an  end.  Please  do 
not  reply  to  this  letter;  do  not  try  to  persuade  me  or  dis- 
suade me.  I  have  thought  much  since  we  parted;  pas- 
sion can  never  again  absorb  my  whole  life.  Whatever 
interest  we  may  henceforth  take  in  each  other  must  be 
from  afar.  And  I  sincerely  hope  that  it  will  be  a  waning 
interest,  on  both  sides." 

She  dispatched  her  letter  and  when  days  passed  con- 
cluded, with  a  disappointment  deeper  than  pique,  that 
Sidney  had  accepted  her  decision  philosophically.  He 
obeyed  her  wishes ;  he  sent  her  no  reply. 

It  was  two  weeks  before  Dorothy  saw  George  again. 
Meanwhile  she  had  received  both  from  him  and  from 
Rosamond  steadily  favorable  reports  of  Graham's  pro- 
[  372  J 


THE  WOMEN  WE  MARRY 

gress.  Not,  however,  until  George  announced  the  fact 
to  her  upon  his  arrival  one  Sunday  at  Manchester,  did 
she  know  that  Graham's  complete  recovery  was  assured. 

That  Sunday  afternoon,  a  golden  September  after- 
noon, she  led  her  husband  through  the  garden,  along  the 
woodland  path,  down  the  rocks  to  the  cleft  in  which  she 
and  Sidney  had  made  their  passionate  vows. 

"Sit  down  here,  George,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  talk  to 
you." 

The  glance  that  he  gave  her  was  apprehensive  and 
appealing;  it  produced  in  her  a  sudden  warmth  of  sym- 
pathy. He  looked  away,  out  at  sea,  and  waited  for  her 
to  begin.  Whitecaps  were  breaking  on  the  waves  far 
out,  the  sails  of  the  pleasure  craft  filled  to  the  brisk 
southerly  breeze  and  shone  hi  the  sun. 

"George,"  she  said,  "you  never  made  any  comment 
—  asked  any  questions  —  about  my  arriving  at  Rosa- 
mond's that  night  with  Sidney." 

"No,"  he  answered. 

"You  haven't  made  any  comment  —  asked  any 
questions  —  about  my  relations  with  Sidney  for  a  long 
time." 

"No." 

"Of  course  you  suspected  that  I  went  to  New  York 
to  see  him  —  that  we  met  often." 

"Yes.  I  suspected  it." 

Her  head  drooped.  "I  —  I'm  afraid  that  you  sus- 
pected worse  than  that." 

She  saw  the  knuckles  show  white  on  his  clasped 
hands. 

"No.  Never." 

[    373    1 


THE   WOMEN   WE   MARRY 

"It  was  mere  chance  that  saved  me,  George." 

He  looked  at  her,  speechless,  eagerly  questioning. 

"I  felt  I  loved  him.  He  came  for  me  here  at  this 
place.  And  I  agreed  to  go  with  him — to  go  away  with  him 
forever  —  that  afternoon.  But  when  we  reached  Boston 
I  read  of  Graham's  accident.  And  then  I  could  n't  go 
on.  I  made  Sidney  take  me  to  Rosamond's.  I  told  him 
it  was  only  a  postponement.  But  it  was  n't  that,  George. 
I  've  had  a  change  of  heart.  I  wrote  to  him  that  I  would 
never  see  him  again." 

LShe  was  glad  that  her  husband  suddenly  reached  out 
and  clasped  her  in  his  arms  —  pressed  her  close  and 
kissed  her,  murmuring  words  of  love.  She  felt  no  such 
delicious  thrill  as  when  Sidney  had  embraced  her,  here 
in  this  place,  —  she  should  never  feel  that  again,  —  but 
she  was  moved  by  George's  emotion,  touched  by  his 
joy  and  his  tenderness.  And  it  comforted  her  to  think 
that  giving  herself  thus  to  her  husband's  arms  she  was 
atoning  in  some  measure  for  the  illicit  passion  which  in 
this  spot  had  reached  its  culmination.  Henceforth  the 
place  would  not  be  one  of  wholly  sinister  significance. 

Sitting  there  with  her  husband,  she  tried  to  exonerate 
Sidney. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  no  one  has  less  cause  to  judge  Sidney 
harshly  than  I!  My  most  shameful  memory  is  of  my 
attempt  to  urge  a  woman  to  desert  her  husband  and 
come  to  me." 

"Rosamond,"  said  Dorothy,  after  a  pause.  "And  it 
must  have  been  on  her  honeymoon!" 

"Yes.   I  thought  she  and  Graham  didn't  love  each 
other  —  and  I  did  love  her.   That 's  over  and  done  with 
[    374    ] 


THE  WOMEN  WE   MARRY 

for  me,  Dorothy,  —  long  since;  I  hope  that  your  love  for 
Sidney  will  be  over  and  done  with  likewise  in  time." 

"I  will  do  what  I  can,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice. 
"I  —  I  never  dreamed  of  any  such  similar  thing  in  your 
life,  George." 

"I  have  felt  all  through  this  experience  of  ours  that  I 
was  being  justly  punished,"  he  said.  "But  I  think  truly 
we  have  both  of  us  been  punished  enough." 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  cried.  And  then  with  a  sudden  rush 
of  feeling,  while  her  head  rested  on  his  breast,  she  said, 
"George,  I  want  to  show  you  that  I  can  be  a  good 
mother!  I've  changed  —  truly  I  have!  Often  now  I 
wish  that  George  had  a  little  brother  or  a  little  sister! 
Oh,  George,  I  do  want  to  have  children,  and  rear  them 
as  all  mine." 

The  serene  blue  sky  brooded  over  them  with  its  bless- 
ing; when  they  entered  the  woodland  path,  the  thrushes 
in  the  trees  strewed  the  leafy  aisles  with  music  of  rejoic- 
ing; when  they  emerged  into  the  garden,  the  ^flowers 
lifted  up  their  faces  to  shine  upon  them ;  for  many  of  the 
plants  the  seed-time  had  come.  O  glorious,  decisive 
afternoon! 


THE   END 


(£be  fiilu'rsibe 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


A     000133514     0 


